


A Collection of Mumblings and Fantasies

by CuddlesandChocolateCake



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amortentia, Apartment AU, Coffee Shops, Drabble Collection, Femslash, Flirting, Fluff, Français | French, I swear it's ten times harder to come up with titles as it is to write the fics, Machiavelli, Neighbors, One Shot Collection, Singing, Teacher's Assistant, Thunderstorms, a tiiiiiiny little bit of angst, just a little bit though, more to be added as I add more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10100186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlesandChocolateCake/pseuds/CuddlesandChocolateCake
Summary: An amalgamation of all of the one-shots and prompt-based fics that I have written and will write. Basically, a trash can filled with all of the AU's you could possibly imagine (at least, that's what I'm striving towards).AU's include, but are not limited to:- The Chronicles of Apartment 55- Prythian University, Class of 2017- Magic and Mischief: Prythian goes to Hogwarts





	1. Come Clean

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of many prompt-based fics that I will write to distract me from the several longfic WIP's that are collecting digital dust on my computer. Enjoy!
> 
> Based on this prompt from a glorious list made by a-nimestuck on Tumblr: "I’m sorry for knocking at your door at, like, six in the morning on a Saturday but I’ve got a job interview in less than an hour and my shower is broken and you happen to be right next door so could I please use yours?"

At first Rhysand thought that he might have been dreaming when he heard the few sharp raps on his door, and tried to go back to sleep. But by the seventh or eight _very insistent_ knock, he was thoroughly convinced that it was real. And whoever had roused him from what had been a rather pleasant dream was about to get an earful. 

He didn’t bother throwing on a shirt and strode to the front door in his boxers; a stranger’s shock at his choice of sleepwear was the least of his problems. Gritting his teeth, he swung it open to reveal a frazzled young woman, her fist raised to knock once more. He suddenly felt infinitely more exposed in his half-dressed state as she balked, an embarrassed flush tinting her cheeks red as she tried—and failed—not to look below his chest. 

“Good morning,” he rasped, clearing the sleep out of his throat before he continued. “What can I do for you at this ungodly hour?” He had meant to put an annoyed bite in his words, but he couldn’t bring himself to, not with the mortified expression on her face, the way her blue-grey eyes widened when they lifted to meet his. 

For a moment, he thought she might not respond. But then she winced and explained, in a single breath, “I’m sorry for knocking at your door at, like, six in the morning on a Saturday but I’ve got a job interview in less than an hour and my shower is broken and you happen to be right next door so could I please use yours?” 

She bit her lip, panting slightly, and it was so endearing that Rhysand felt a smile tug at his lips, despite the sleepy fog still dulling his senses.  Keeping his tone teasing, he drawled, “Well, as it happens …” He gave her an inquisitive expression. 

“Feyre,” she supplied.

“As it happens, _Feyre,_ I’m feeling rather generous this morning. And what time did you say it was? Six o’clock? In truth,” he conceded, “I should be getting up soon anyway. Come on in.” 

Her relief was palpable as Rhysand guided the poor woman inside. Barefoot, she was clad in a matching pair of flannel pyjamas with what looked to be a reindeer pattern, despite the fact that Christmas wasn’t for several months, and she clutched a bundle of folded clothing to her chest. Her golden-brown hair was messy and stuck up at odd angles, and Rhysand was having a harder time than he would like to admit not reaching up—down, he supposed, since she was considerably shorter than him—to untangle it. 

So instead of doing something he would definitely regret, he led her through his spacious apartment and tried to catch her eyes, which were fixed on the blue toothbrush gripped in her small hand. 

“I like your pyjamas,” he teased. She finally met his gaze and she— _Feyre_ —was definitely fighting a scowl, likely assuming that the use of his shower was dependent on good behaviour. 

Keeping an admirably impassive expression as she narrowly dodged his couch, she quipped, “Likewise,” looking pointedly at his meagre sleepwear which—he now realized—was decorated with little black cats. They were a gift from Cassian, he remembered. _A guaranteed woman-pleaser,_ he’d assured him. Rhysand couldn’t be sure if his friend had been right or wrong as she snickered, looking visibly more relaxed than she had when he’d found her standing at his door. 

“Here you are,” he announced, gracefully flicking his wrist towards his recently-renovated washroom. He sent a silent prayer of thanks that he’d thought to clean it earlier that week. “Use whatever you need to, and towels are …” He glanced at the shelf where three soft, white towels were sitting, way too high for the petite woman to reach. More than likely saving her from an embarrassing and potentially dangerous situation, he effortlessly removed them from their perch and set them on a lower level. “… here,” he finished, smiling lazily. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you,” said Feyre, her voice much more assured than it had been minutes ago. 

“Anytime, Feyre darling. My shower is your shower.” With that, he left her to her business, but not before he saw her cheeks turn a delightful shade of red. 

After a short debate with himself, Rhysand decided to risk being late for work in order to take a quick shower once Feyre was finished—the alternative being forgetting the shower altogether in favour of punctuality. This was how he found himself staring at a book, not taking in a single word as he fought not to listen to the sound of the running water accompanied by soft, nearly inaudible singing. Needless to say, he failed miserably. 

 

* * *

 

What felt like hours but was undoubtedly minutes later, Rhysand heard the water shut off, though Feyre continued to sing quietly. Without the shower’s din, he could hear the tune more clearly and recognized it as an aria from an opera that he couldn’t name. Part of him knew that the moment she left, he would go looking for the song. But for now, he was content to listen to the soft sound of her voice, clearly muted in an attempt to keep him from overhearing.

When he heard the bathroom door open, he left his room to greet her, this time having the decency to throw on a pair of sweatpants. He blinked a few times when she came into view. 

Her previously tousled hair was deftly braided in a crown around her head, the colour darkened to a deep bronze now that it was damp. Skinny, black pants hugged her lean legs, making them look deceptively long despite her short figure, and she wore a black blazer over an understated white shirt, standing a little bit taller on strappy, black heels.

“Better than reindeer pyjamas, right?” she commented, snapping Rhysand out of his stupor. She looked much more confident now that she was properly dressed, and he was momentarily struck silent when she gave him a radiant smile—no longer the timid, self-conscious woman she had seemed when she’d appeared unannounced on his doorstep. 

Recovering himself, he replied smoothly, “I think you would have knocked their socks off in either outfit, darling.” Though her smile didn’t falter, he was satisfied to notice another, fainter flush of colour spread to her cheeks. 

“Thank you so much, again. I’ll make it up to you sometime, ok?” Collecting her things, she made haste towards the front door, letting him open it for her and meeting his eyes again—this time from a slightly higher vantage point, though he was still easily a head taller than her. He winked and tried not to get lost in the swirling, depthless blue of her eyes. 

“I’m holding you to that,” he promised as she stepped out of his apartment. “Good luck, Feyre darling.” 

“Thanks,” she called as she hurried through the hall and turned the corner. Releasing a sigh, he let the door shut behind him as he padded back to the bathroom, running a hand down his face. The citrus-y smell of his soap still permeated the humid air as he ran the water once more, trying not to think about the young woman who had just vacated this small space. And he wasn’t sure if it was fortunate or unfortunate when, in the middle of his shower, the water sputtered a few times and turned ice-cold. _Fortunate,_ he decided. _Very fortunate._

 

* * *

 

His hair still wasn’t completely dry when Rhysand hurried into the building a few minutes late and slid coolly into his office. At first, he almost didn’t notice his admin waiting patiently by his desk, clipboard in hand. _Quiet as a wraith,_ he thought, not for the first time.

“Good morning, Cerridwen.” 

“Good morning. I just wanted to remind you that you have an appointment in about…” she made a show of checking her nonexistent watch, “…three minutes ago.” _Shit. I suppose that’s what I get for not checking my emails._ She passed him the clipboard with a wry smile, and he nodded his thanks before she took her leave. 

Examining his schedule, he combed through his weekly list of meetings, phone calls, and deadlines before he found what he was looking for. An incredulous laugh rumbled out of him. 

When he looked up, Cerridwen had already returned with his “appointment”, who looked positively dumbstruck as she stared at him once again with familiar, blue-grey eyes. 

“Hello, Feyre darling.” 


	2. Unwelcome Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **prompt credits are somewhat spoiler-y, so read on at your own risk** Based on the following prompts: “I couldn’t help but notice you’re watching a show I like instead of studying in the computer lab." / "Hey, I heard the opening to my favourite show that I haven’t seen in forever playing somewhere in the building and I tracked it to you so can I watch it with you or what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's your friendly neighbourhood trash can, back again with some more shamelessly fluffy antagonism. I hope you enjoy it!!

After a long day of mind-numbing, entirely uneventful classes, my day was finally beginning to look up. At dinner, I had snagged the last piece of chocolate cake in the dining hall; Mor had been able to join me, for once, since rugby practice had been cancelled due to the relentless rain; and not only was the computer lab nearly empty when I arrived, but my favourite seat was unoccupied. 

It boasted one of the only chairs in the room that didn’t creak, the computer never crashed, and it was at the very back—meaning that no one could see my screen. It wasn’t that I had anything to hide, but I didn’t appreciate people watching me work. It made me antsy.

With that thought in mind, I got comfortable at my station and logged in, immediately launching Photoshop. My graphic design professor had been insistent that we start our new project the minute it was assigned to us; and since I had nothing better to do, I figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to follow her orders. Alis wasn’t the type to give pointless instructions. 

After a few minutes, I got into a steady rhythm; everyone else in the room faded away until I was alone with my art. Colours began gradually transforming into textures and shapes; and soon, the outline of a grotesque, skeletal figure stared back at me from dark, vacant eyes. I wasn’t sure how I had come up with something so sinister—I had simply let my mind wander, let it take over. _Maybe I should be getting more sleep…_

One of the benefits of this coveted station was that it _did_ offer a unobstructed view of the computers in front of it. Although today, that was more of an inconvenience than an advantage.

After about an hour, the lab door swung open on silent hinges and a man walked in, selecting the seat directly in front of me. Normally, this would not be an issue, but not long after he sat down, it became evident that he was _clearly_ not using the computer to study. Although the screen was partially obscured by his body, there was no hiding the fact that he was using the computer for the sole purpose of watching Game of Thrones. I scowled at his back. 

As if he could feel me glaring at him, he paused the show and smoothly turned towards me. Mischief danced in his eyes, and when he took in my unimpressed expression, his mouth quirked to the side. “You won’t tell on me, will you?” he implored in a hushed voice. I rolled my eyes—he knew full well that I wasn't going to tattle on him, for all the good that it would do. Strictly speaking, using school computers to watch television was not against the rules; it was more of an unspoken courtesy. 

“Thank you, darling. Now if you’ll excuse me, they’re getting to the good part.” He winked at me and gracefully swivelled his chair back around, promptly resuming the show. I would never admit it—especially since I’d likely never see him again—but I was an embarrassingly avid fan of the series. It had only taken me a moment to identify the episode as one that I’d already seen. Several times, if I was being honest. As such, it shouldn’t have been distracting, but it was hard to concentrate on a specific colour palette when an entirely different one was flashing obnoxiously in front of me. 

After almost an hour of futility, I could barely stifle a frustrated growl; and there was no mistaking the shake of his shoulders from similarly poorly-concealed laughter. If memory served, nothing about that particular episode was amusing, so I had no doubt as to the source of his entertainment. 

Despite my determination to spite him and get some work done, I broke first—but only after I witnessed him start _another_ episode. _He couldn’t have left after just one?_ Fuming, I saved my work and collected my things, avoiding his smug stare as it followed me out the door. Instead, I flipped him off over my shoulder—not particularly caring what the few other students in the room made of it.

 

* * *

 

For all that I’d never seen the man before, he was in the computer lab every day that week, pointedly refusing to sit anywhere else in the room. This left me to choose between forfeiting my spot—and thus letting him win whatever challenge we’d unwittingly instigated—or forfeiting any chance at getting work done. Needless to say, I never chose the former.

At the end of the week, my assignment was nearly finished—only requiring a few finishing touches—and I was determined to get to the lab before he did. Just this once. So I made my way over a few hours earlier than usual, telling myself it was purely so that I could finally lay this project to rest and enjoy my weekend a few hours early. 

But when I quietly entered the near-vacant room, he was already there. I ground my teeth. He lifted his head as I neared him and met my eyes, smirking like a cat; and it was only then that I noticed that he wasn’t where he usually sat. No, the insufferable prick was sitting in _my_ spot. Instead of losing face, I schooled my features into perfect neutrality and wordlessly dropped into _his_ seat. I only needed a few minutes to work on my project, anyway. 

One advantage to sitting in front of him was that I was no longer splitting my attention between my work and his show. So it didn’t take me very long to complete the assignment and submit it. With a substantial amount of relief and no small amount of indignation at the gall of this asshole, I logged out and packed up my things. But before I had the chance to stand up, I felt something land in my lap. I looked down: it was a piece of paper that had been folded a few times. A note. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction of reading it immediately—instead, I pocketed it and made my way out, not giving him a backward glance. 

 

* * *

 

The note burned a hole in my pocket for the entire walk home, but I managed to wait until I arrived at my apartment to read the mysterious man’s letter. It was written on a sheet torn from a spiral bound notebook, and I could see the faint impression where little pencil drawings had been erased. I couldn’t quite make them out, but I was pretty sure that they weren’t the important part of the message. So I unfolded it, more curious than I would have liked to admit.

_Darling,_

_I can’t say I’m sorry for bothering you—you’re adorable when you’re irritated. Regardless, I regret to inform you that you won’t have the pleasure of seeing me again as I’ve finished the last episode and my laptop has finally been fixed. I hope you can forgive me for disturbing you, but I had to catch up before the season premiere tonight. Your art is lovely, by the way._

_Sincerely, the prick in front of you (I don’t know your name, so it’s only fair that mine remains a secret.)_

I frowned. Maddeningly, he’d found a way to get on my nerves even after I’d left the lab. But strangely, I felt an odd sort of disappointment that we wouldn’t be continuing our lighthearted rivalry anymore. It had been a welcome distraction from the stress of schoolwork (as well as from the schoolwork itself, unfortunately). 

Belatedly, the latter part of the message registered—I’d completely forgotten about the season premiere, and my stupid, worthless, one-hundred-year-old dinosaur of a television was _still_ not working. _Streaming it is._

To stream it, though, meant waiting until the next morning. Mor was at rugby, so I couldn’t beg a boon of her; and even if I was in any mood to forfeit my dignity, I didn’t even know the name of the Game of Thrones guy. _It’s only fair that mine remains a secret._ This time I didn’t restrain my infuriated growl; there was no one there to hear it, after all. 

More than a little miserable, I threw on sweatpants and my favourite band t-shirt and curled up on my old, well-loved couch with my sketchbook. I tried to will my mind blank and draw something— _anything—_ but that was impossible when all I could think about was the fact that I was missing the premiere I’d been dying to watch for months. It was the only thing that came to mind when my pencil met the page, and I could almost hear the theme song…

Then I realized: it wasn’t in my head. The unmistakeable tune was playing nearby—emanating from the adjacent apartment. I’d never spoken to my neighbour, having moved in so recently; but I wasn’t above introducing myself over my favourite show. So I hastily grabbed a few packages of microwave popcorn and my keys and hurried over. 

I hesitated for a moment before knocking, hoping that this wasn’t terribly rude, but I had _needs._ And this was one of them. It would be cruelty of the acutest kind to have had to put up with a week of watching reruns over some very attractive… very _annoying_ man’s shoulder, only to be denied the ability to watch the first episode of the new season. 

So I knocked. I heard the music pause, followed by soft footsteps until… 

The breath caught in my throat. _Of course._ Standing before me was the last person in the world that I was interested in talking to. This was certainly divine punishment for some unknown crime that I’d committed, and I contemplated turning back around and pretending I’d never left my apartment. But I hadn’t given up _once_ this week; and I wasn’t about to give up now. 

Sitting down, I hadn’t noticed how tall he was; but it was impossible to ignore now that I was at eye level with his chest. But I wouldn’t be intimidated, even if he was a head taller than me, so I tilted my head up and met his eyes. They twinkled as curiosity at the intrusion slowly morphed into delight. His smirk was a lot more… aggravating up close.

“Did you miss me already?” he drawled, fluttering unfairly long eyelashes. “Or did you follow me home, perhaps? I knew you liked me, but—“

“As inconvenient as it is for me,” I cut him off, “you’re my neighbour.” His smirk widened into a shit-eating grin, and before he could say anything else, I continued, throwing a bit more assertion into my tone. “And I’m calling in a favour.”

“Oh? And what can I do for you this fine evening?” 

I gritted my teeth, hating that I had to ask him—of all people. Trying to temper my annoyance, I ground out, “I couldn’t help but notice that you were watching Game of Thrones instead of studying in the computer lab.” He raised his eyebrows in unrepentant affirmation. Bracing myself, I went on. “I heard the opening song through the wall and my TV’s broken and I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to stream it so can I watch it with you or what? You owe me,” I added, for good measure. 

I was beginning to tire of his arrogant smirk; he had the upper hand, and he knew it. So I muttered, “Never mind,” and turned away, angry and more than a little embarrassed. But his broad hand landed on my shoulder.

When I faced him again, he was smiling—less infuriating, more apologetic. “Why on Earth would I turn you away?” he asked incredulously. “You’re absolutely right—I _do_ owe you. And look at that, you brought popcorn!” He gestured to the packets being gripped far too tightly in my hands. “Of course you can watch it with me. Missing the first episode would be a travesty.” Amusement danced in his eyes, which were a captivating shade of violet that I hadn’t had the chance to properly notice during our brief encounters. They would be impossible to draw—not that I would ever try. He opened the door a little wider, stepping aside to let me pass. 

His apartment was the mirror image of mine—but where his was polished and well-decorated, mine was sparse and run-down in comparison. And his flatscreen was enormous—at least three times wider than my pathetic excuse for a television. 

He collapsed unceremoniously onto a plush, leather love-seat and patted the space beside him. “I paused it—you didn’t miss anything important, except for the glorious masterpiece that is the theme song. Though, if I remember correctly, you were listening to it through our shared wall.” When I remained standing, looking back and forth between his monster of a TV and the couch that was slightly too small for my liking, he crooned, “Come on, I don’t bite.” I rolled my eyes, giving him a look that very clearly conveyed what would happen if he tried. 

So he got up from his seat and walked towards me. At first, I thought he was going to do something supremely stupid, like attempt to pick me up; but he strode past me to the kitchen and busied himself filling up two glasses with what looked like lemonade, even though it was the dead of winter. He also looked pointedly at the packages of popcorn still clutched in my hands. I tossed them to him, and grimaced as they flew in completely opposite directions. But he plucked them both smoothly out of the air without breaking eye contact. 

“Impressive,” I admitted, and meant it. 

“Captain of the ultimate frisbee team, at your service.” He bowed at the waist, and I stifled a laugh. He definitely had a flair for the dramatics.

“I didn’t know Prythian U had an ultimate team.”

“They didn’t until this year.” He winked as he put one of the bags of popcorn in the microwave; then, almost faster than I could detect— _almost—_ he shot the other unopened package at me. I had to lunge to catch it, and I would have slipped if I hadn’t been barefoot, but he looked impressed nonetheless. 

“You should join,” he suggested, eyebrows raised and a pleased smile on his lips. I looked back up before he caught me staring at them—which I wasn’t. 

“I played in high school,” I said offhand. “Wouldn’t I have to try out?” I wasn’t sure how well I still played, given that high school was a few years behind me now. But he grinned. 

“You just did—you’re in. Practices are Monday and Thursday evenings at seven o’clock sharp.” The microwave beeped, and the smell of cheap popcorn filled the air. 

“It it only because of that spectacular catch, or is it so that you have an excuse to annoy me more often?”

He scoffed. “And you think _I’m_ arrogant. You didn’t have to say it—it’s written all over your face, darling. Besides, now that we’re neighbours—“ I didn’t bother pointing out that we’d always _been_ neighbours, “—I can annoy you anytime I want to.” The mischievous look he was giving me left me with no doubt as to how often that would be. 

“Knock on my door after midnight and I swear to god I’ll remove your manhood—what little of it there is.” 

He barked a laugh and flashed me a wolfish grin. “My, what a sharp mouth you’ve got. All the better to—“

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence,” I warned him, stuck between wanting to slap that infinitely amused expression off of his face and wanting to… Slap. Definitely slap. 

Shoulders shaking with silent laughter, he raised his hands in surrender and steered me towards his couch, which did look invitingly comfortable despite its intimate size. When he tried to balance both of our glasses and the bowl of popcorn, I rolled my eyes and took pity on him, removing the popcorn from its precariously balanced position in his arms. His tight-fitting t-shirt— _seriously, who wore those inside?—_ did absolutely nothing to hide the lean muscle limning his arms, flexing with the minimal effort involved in carrying our drinks. And from my low vantage point, I had a clear view of his tattoos: ambiguous black designs that were somewhat visible through the fabric of his white shirt, barely peeking out from under the collar and continuing over his similarly well-toned shoulders. 

Before he could catch me staring, _again_ , I fixed my attention on the popcorn and popped one into my mouth as I lowered myself onto the couch, sitting as far to the side as I could. 

“Hey, no cheating,” he admonished, tsking at me as I took another piece of popcorn. “Those are strictly for consumption during the program.” I stared into his startlingly violet eyes as I petulantly ate another one, at which point he confiscated the bowl from me, nearly spilling our drinks in the process. 

“Idiot,” I murmured as I relieved him of my glass of lemonade and took a sip. It was lovely: tangy and sweet, and clearly homemade. 

“Before you ask,” he said as he took a seat beside me, “I didn’t make it; a friend of mine did. I’ll tell him you liked it.” I took another drink in confirmation—it was quite nice, despite it being out of place in the middle of the winter.

Unlike me, he lounged comfortably on the other side of the couch; though he made no move to sit closer to me, accepting my silent request for space. But he didn’t seem to be able to resist needling me, and teased, “I was telling the truth earlier—I don’t bite. At least, not without consent.” 

If only to avoid any more nagging, I scooted a little bit closer to him so that I was no longer hugging the arm of the love-seat; and though there was still a noticeable amount of space between us, he seemed satisfied that I no longer looked inclined to jump off the couch. 

“Ready?” he asked, the near-juvenile excitement in his voice at odds with its low, dark timbre. I snorted, though I was nodding equally as fervently. “I’ll rewind it. The theme song is one of the best parts, in my humble opinion.” 

“Nothing about your opinion is humble,” I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“Careful, darling. If you hurt my feelings, I might have to evict you. You wouldn’t get your popcorn back, either.” Remembering that we had, in fact, made popcorn, I absentmindedly reached over to grab a handful. But he deftly switched hands and lifted the bowl up out of my reach. It was an effort not to smile, not to let him know that he’d succeeded in made me feel more comfortable around him. Instead of risking the potentially awkward situation that would ensue if I climbed over him to grab it, I poked his side insistently until his arm reflexively lowered to fend me off. With a triumphant grin, I snatched the bowl back, cradling it possessively. 

“Fine,” he acquiesced. “You can hold it. Consider it a peace offering for distracting you all week with my inhumanly good looks.” I jabbed him again, a little harder this time. 

“ _Your show_ was distracting me. Don’t let it go to your head.” Though he wasn’t entirely wrong. I recalled my fascination with the way the fluorescent light reflected off of his short, blue-black hair. And I may or may not have added the curious colour to my drawing. Not that I would ever let him know. 

“Keep telling yourself that, darling.” He smirked at me. “It just occurred to me,” he cut himself off, his brow furrowing, “that we haven’t been properly introduced. And as much as _darling_ suits you, I’d like to call you by your real name, if that’s alright with you.” When I didn’t answer right away, he offered, “I’ll go first. Hello, I’m Rhysand—but please call me Rhys.” He gave me a winning smile, and damn me if my heart didn’t miss a few beats. 

“Feyre,” I replied. A laugh bubbled out of me when he extended his hand, arm bent at a decidedly uncomfortable angle to accommodate the small space between us. But I still shook it, and a pleasant warmth bloomed through me from where our hands were joined. I held on for a bit longer than necessary, but he made no move to let go, only smiling wider when I finally released his hand. 

“Feel free to take it back whenever you like.” Violet eyes twinkled at me, and I thought I might have seen a faint flush colour his cheeks. But I blinked and it vanished. “Shall we? I think we’ve both waited long enough.” He leaned forwards to grab the remote from the table in front of us, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the muscles in his back rippled with the motion. I violently pushed away the traitorous, entirely inconvenient thoughts that manifested as a result of my observation. 

As promised, he restarted the show, the rich sound of the cello floating from the speakers as the theme song started up once again. As the music began to play, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I swallowed a laugh as I watched Rhysand’s hand sway back and forth like he was conducting the music himself. As I watched it sweep small, graceful lines through the air in time to the music, it became more and more difficult not to take his hand again. But the moment the story commenced, everything else was immediately forgotten. We were rapt with attention, and neither he nor I noticed that in the space of a few minutes, we’d closed the distance between each other. 

 

* * *

 

When the episode came to a close and the credits started rolling, I contemplated waking her; but she looked so calm, so peaceful. And if I was being honest, I was indulging in a bit of selfishness. So I breathed as evenly as I could and tried my best not to run my fingers through her silken hair, her berries and vanilla scent invading my senses as she slept soundly on my chest. 

I wasn’t sure at which point during the episode she had, without warning, snuggled into my side and leaned her head on my shoulder—only that she’d done it when she was completely, undeniably awake. The thought made me smile. 

In that moment, I decided that I wasn’t planning on moving any time soon. I was perfectly happy here. _And,_ I reasoned, _we’re both already in our pyjamas._ We’d rewatch the episode tomorrow, perhaps, so that she could see the ending. But for now, I closed my eyes and let the sound of Feyre’s deep, even breathing sing me to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother of god, I'm such trash for these two, and for the "Oh well would you look at that, what a coincidence, wouldn't it be funny if..." trope. Anyway, rambling aside, I hope you liked it, and feel free to tell me what you thought! Also, come find me on Tumblr, if you feel so inclined :)


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following prompt: “I know we just met yesterday but the landlord is coming over and I have two cats please hang out with them for a few hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fluff, fluff, and more fluff, then even more fluff because cats. Also, I could be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure this is the first Elucien fic I've written... Regardless, I hope you like it!

“Pretzel, I’m trying to study,” Elain whined as her cat padded into her lap and sprawled lazily on top of her textbook. She hadn’t been accomplishing much anyway, staring at the same sentence for half an hour without taking in a single word; so with a resigned sigh, she began idly stroking his fur as he slept soundly on her lap. She wasn’t sure where his sister had gone off to, but Cupcake tended to be the better behaved of the two in any case, so Elain wasn’t worried. 

With the orange tabby obscuring almost the entire book, she evidently couldn’t continue studying. So she gave up on that for the time being, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Cats didn’t care if you had finals. Reaching carefully around his small, slumbering form, she plucked her phone off of the arm of the couch and put in her headphones, starting up her favourite playlist—now was as good a time as any to relax and enjoy the simple pleasure of a good song, she figured. When the music began playing, she laid her head against the back of the couch and let herself get lost in the music, humming along quietly and running her hand through her cat’s downy fur.

But when she was halfway through the song, her phone began ringing, cutting abruptly through the melody and startling Elain enough that she woke Pretzel, who gave her an irritated mewl before laying his head back down. 

She didn’t recognize the number, but she answered it regardless; she had discoveredthat with minimal effort on her part, she could sweet-talk any telemarketer into taking her number off of their list in less time than it took to make a cup of tea. _All in a day’s work, and one less interruption to worry about._

“Hello?” 

“Hi, is this Elain Archeron?” came a gentle, female voice.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“It’s Mrs. Laurent, your landlord. Landlady, I suppose.” The woman chuckled warmly. “I just wanted to remind you that I’ll be dropping by shortly to perform a standard inspection. Nothing to fret about—I just want to ensure that the previous residents left your new apartment in good condition. You know, functioning appliances, working pipes, no forgotten pets…” 

Distantly, Elain could still hear Mrs. Laurent speaking in her ear, but her focus had been swiftly directed elsewhere. _No pets._ She cursed inwardly, looking guiltily at the snoozing ball of fur in her lap. 

When she’d been living with her family, there had been two strays who frequently visited their house; and for months, Elain had secretly been taking care of them: feeding them what she could, giving them water, hiding them inside when the weather was unkind to them. When she moved out a few weeks ago, she knew that she couldn’t leave them behind to starve; so she’d taken them to the vet, filled out all of the necessary paperwork, and given them a home with her without hesitation. 

Usually, Elain wasn’t one to break the rules—but this was one rule that she could not bring herself to abide.

“Miss. Archeron?” 

“Oh, sorry. Yes, that’s fine,” she stammered, wondering how on Earth she was going to hide two cats from her landlady in less than an hour. 

“Fantastic—I’ll head up now, since you’re home. I’ll see you soon.” _Shit. Did I say I was home?_ Fitting punishment for tuning out halfway through the phone call, she supposed. 

A beep, and the call ended. Now, to locate her other cat and work a miracle. _Is there somewhere I could hide them?_ But she shut down that train of thought before it manifested—if Mrs. Laurent was doing a full inspection, she would more than likely be investigating all of the cat-sized nooks and crannies in her apartment. And Elain was well aware that there was no hope of getting her pets out of the building with so little time to spare, so asking any of her friends to cat-sit in a pinch was out of the question. She was nearly out of options. 

And then Elain had an idea. It utterly terrified her, and it might very well end up being fruitless—but it was an idea nonetheless. _And the only one I’ve got._

Scooping a lethargic Pretzel into her arms, Elain got up to go find Cupcake—and found her dozing comfortably on her quilt-covered bed. _Spoiled princess._ She picked up the no-longer-sleeping cat, whispering, “Sorry,” and planted an apologetic kiss between her perky white ears. 

In an impressive feat of balance, she lifted her leg and managed to turn the handle and open the front door with her foot—she thanked years of ballet for that skill. _That_ was the easy part. 

Peering into the hall, she looked both ways to make sure no one was in the corridor—feeling a lot like she was preparing to cross a busy intersection. Then, still vigilant, she strode into the hallway and stopped in front of her neighbour’s door, heart hammering in her chest. She’d promised herself when she moved in that she would introduce herself to the people next door as soon as she was settled in; but she wasn’t extremely fond of talking to strangers, so she kept putting it off. _This is going to be one hell of a first impression._

Careful not to drop either cat, she knocked softly, shifting anxiously on her feet while she waited.

But she didn’t have to wait long, the door swinging open almost immediately; and any words she might have prepared to beg for help with her precarious situation flew right out of her head when she beheld the man casually leaning against the doorframe.

Tall and lithe, with long, vibrant red hair neatly braided down his back; he was toned enough to suggest that he exercised, and the fitted, cotton t-shirt he was wearing left his muscled arms in full view. Instantly, her eyes were drawn to a long, jagged scar that slashed from his brow down to his jaw, through what Elain now realized was a glass eye. The only visible difference between it and his real eye was its bright, golden iris, standing out clearly next to the other, which was a warm russet. Both were fixed on her, friendly and inquisitive.

“Hello,” he said, his voice silvered with a faint accent that Elain couldn’t place. “What can I do for you and your… friends?” he asked, lips quirking to the side as he payed each of her _friends_ a curious glance. 

“Uh… well, you see…” she faltered, swallowing hard. “I know we just met yesterday but the landlady is coming over and I have two cats… please hang out with them for a few hours?” 

Lifting an arched brow, he replied smoothly, “Quite the contrary. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” 

Elain cocked her head, unsure if he was joking, since she vividly remembered running into him— _literally_ —last night as she was heading through the lobby. Maybe it had been too dark for him to properly see her, but she definitely hadn’t forgotten his fiery red hair and the strong hands that had saved her from eating the floor tiles. They’d only exchanged brief smiles and a murmured “thank you” before Elain had scurried off, more than a little embarrassed about accidentally crashing into the chest of an absurdly attractive stranger.

“We..um…ran into each other, yesterday,” she mumbled, ducking her head as her face heated, growing warmer when he released a breathy laugh. 

“Ah yes, now I remember. What’s your name, love?” She felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the endearment, his smoky voice making the word sound at once affectionate and sultry. 

“I’m Elain. Thanks for… um… catching me.” 

Another whisper of a laugh and an amused half smile. “Lovely to meet you, Elain—no bother at all. Now, before you land yourself in hot water, why don’t I take those two off your hands?” An audible sigh of relief made it past her lips as he straightened from his leisurely posture and gently picked up both of Elain’s cats, his muscled arms flexing with the motion. Elain wasn’t staring. Really, she wasn’t.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she exclaimed, giving him her most grateful smile, and he blinked a few times. _Was he blushing?_

“Not at all—I’m glad you stopped by. I could use the company.” He winked at her, his golden eye flashing, and asked, “And who will I be spending my Saturday evening with?”

Softly clearing her throat, she pointed to each cat in turn. “Pretzel, Cupcake, meet…” She hesitated, then looked expectantly at the man. 

“Lucien, at your service,” he offered, inclining his head. Elain giggled. 

Down the hall, Elain heard the door to the staircase creak open, cutting their introduction short. Her eyes widened. “Thank you, again. I’ll be back soon, I hope!” 

Before she darted back into her apartment, the door mercifully still ajar, she heard him reply, “Looking forward to it,” followed by the snick of the closing door. 

She only had about thirty seconds to tidy up and throw out any garbage lying around before she heard a few sharp raps on her door. From the other side, an elderly female voice called, “Open up—I brought sweets!” 

Sure enough, when Elain invited her in, Mrs. Laurent was bearing a sizeable box of assorted doughnuts. She felt somewhat guilty for lying to the sweet old woman—but only a small bit. A little deception in order to protect her babies wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? 

“You feel free to go about your day, enjoy a doughnut or two.” Her kind eyes crinkled. “I might be awhile, but you needn’t worry. You’re not being graded.” With that, she began poking and prodding around the kitchen, and Elain settled herself onto the couch with her textbook once more. As she started rereading the section on omnivores and bit into a chocolate doughnut, she could have sworn she heard a masculine voice coming from the opposite side of the wall murmuring a string of nonsense words, followed by an answering _meow_. 

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Though the inspection had taken a rather long time, Elain hadn’t minded—and she had actually succeeded in getting some work done, making it through two whole chapters before Mrs. Laurent assured her that everything was in order and headed out. And though she itched to go back to Lucien’s flat as soon as her landlady left, Elain made herself wait a few minutes before she returned, this time bringing two of the doughnuts from the box that Mrs. Laurent had “accidentally” left behind. 

Knocking, as it turned out, was considerably easier when Elain didn’t have to worry about dropping a cat from three feet in the air, even if they were known for their agility. It took a bit longer than it had last time for the door to open; so, while she waited, she quietly hummed the song she’d been listening to earlier, stopping as soon as she saw the doorknob turn. 

In order to prevent any escape attempts orchestrated by her cats, Lucien only opened the door a crack; and the first thing Elain saw when he did was a furry orange head poking out into the hall. When Pretzel retreated back into the apartment, his curiosity apparently satiated, Elain looked up at Lucien, who was grinning. “Welcome back. You haven’t been evicted, I take it?”

“N—no, thankfully not. Would you like a doughnut?” she asked, offering him the plate. But he shook his head, giving her a brilliant, heart-stopping smile. Perhaps she’d have to find excuses to come by more often, she thought, if only to see more of those incredible smiles. 

“That’s very kind of you, but I’ll have to decline for now. Dinner’s almost ready,” he added, by way of explanation. Indeed, Elain could smell something heavenly coming from his kitchen, and he gestured for her to come in. 

Upon entering his apartment, she noticed several things at once: he had donned a bright, shamrock-green apron (“Kiss me: I’m Irish”), Pretzel was winding around his legs, purring affectionately, and Cupcake was curled up on the kitchen floor, having resumed her rudely interrupted nap. 

“They like you,” Elain noted, leaning down to pet the orange tabby. He rubbed his head against her outstretched hand, then promptly continued his dance around Lucien’s legs. She shook her head. “I’ll try not to be offended,” she muttered jokingly as her cat paid her no more heed than the one fast asleep on the kitchen floor. 

“It appears I’ve been replaced,” she observed, looking accusingly at Lucien as he walked over to the stove, Pretzel following diligently behind him. As if to further emphasize her point, Cupcake—likely having been woken up by their chatter—stretched languidly, then came over and placed herself right beside the red-haired man. 

“Not at all—I’m just a shiny new toy. Besides, that one,” he jerked his thumb at Cupcake, who was now engaged in unintelligible conversation with her brother, “was crying at the door for at least ten minutes when you first left.” 

“She seems to have made herself quite comfortable since then,” Elain replied, crouching to pet the fluffy white cat. Just then, an unseen timer went off, and Lucien had to step carefully around his fuzzy admirers in order to grab a pair of oven mitts from the counter. Taking that as her cue, Elain shooed the cats from the kitchen so that he could safely remove a gorgeous, piping hot shepherd’s pie from the oven. Elain’s brows shot up; she hadn’t seen home cooking like that since before her mom had passed away, and definitely not in a kitchen as tiny as this one. 

“It’s my mam’s recipe,” he told her when he took in Elain’s unabashed gawking. “Most Irish folks can’t cook very well, in my experience—“ if that was the case, then he definitely wasn’t included in that generalization, “—but I don’t know a single one who can’t do at least _something_ with potatoes. I like to think I’m creative,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. His accent made infinitely more sense now, the gentle lilt in his voice confirming his Irish heritage. 

“I think you’ve gone above and beyond creative,” she declared, gaping at the dish, steam rising off of it and filling the kitchen with a wonderful aroma. Her stomach growled. 

Giving a pointed look at the source of that unbidden sound, Lucien smirked and inquired, “Would you like to stay and have some? I’m sure I could finish it myself, but it might not be a good idea… and I think your cats might want to stay, too.” As if in answer, both of her cats planted themselves resolutely at his feet, making it notably harder for him to bring the spectacular dish to his table. 

“Well,” she conceded, “I trust them. And it saves me from ordering takeout.” Her fridge was embarrassingly empty, having forgotten once again to find time to do groceries between her job and her intense study sessions. 

“It’s settled then,” Lucien said decisively. And it was only at that moment that she noticed that the table was already set for two. 

“You must have been certain your charm would work on me,” she postulated, glancing at the extra place setting and smiling wryly. _He’d planned this._ A faint flush coloured his cheeks, but his expression didn’t change, still glowing with unwavering self-assurance.

“I just wanted to be prepared for any situation—including the occasional dinner guest,” he explained simply. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” _Yes._ But she didn’t need to admit it, especially since she was almost certain that he’d known the answer long before he’d uttered the question. He gave her a cocky smile and a wink, and pulled out her chair.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she teased, chuckling at the archaic gesture; to which he sketched a bow and intoned, “Milady,” looking rather lordlike, in her opinion. 

They tucked in with little ceremony, and she swore, out of the corner of her eye, that she saw her cats exchange triumphant looks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go raibh maith agat to my real-life Irish beta, without whom, Irish!Lucien would not be authentic. I adore these two with all of my trash heart. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr, if you feel like it :)


	4. Heatwave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loosely based on (more like inspired by) the following prompt: “I’ve been in love with you since you first moved in and I finally built up the courage to knock on your door but when you answered you had just woken up and didn’t have a shirt on so I ran away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kind of silly, and both Mor and Az are less like wizened immortals and more like slightly awkward young adults. I like the idea that they were both like that to a certain extent before several centuries passed, before Azriel decided he wasn't good enough for Mor, and before Mor developed her nearly unbreakable self-confidence. I wanted to see what would happen if I gave them both a chance to be young and impulsive. I hope that, given that choice, their personalities are still close to canon. 
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

**** A bead of sweat rolled slowly down Mor’s forehead, leaving a wet trail down the bridge of her nose, and she wiped at it irritably. A heatwave like Prythian had never seen had swept over the city, and _Spring Court Apartments Complex_ was not known for having reliable air flow. Indeed, for the third day in a row, Mor’s apartment was sweltering hot, even with three fans running at once; in truth, they only served to circulate the painfully hot air around her apartment, doing nothing to dispel it. 

The lemonade she’d made an hour ago was no longer cold at all, to her dismay, but she could not bring herself to go back inside the suffocating apartment to get more. So, here she was, reclined on a cheap deck chair on her balcony, figuring that if she couldn’t avoid the heat, she could at least enjoy it at the source.

Apart from the fact that it was an excuse to wear her new bikini, which she’d purchased in a well-meaning attempt to encourage herself to exercise, it was also a great opportunity to people-watch. Her last apartment had offered no balcony, no patio—only a small window overlooking the adjacent street, where traffic was a mere trickle compared to the bustling city street beneath her current fifth-floor vantage point. Not only did she have a clear view of the many shoppers and pedestrians below her, but she was also in the perfect position to observe her neighbours when they made use of their own balconies. She chuckled to herself as she wondered what would happen if the conservative old woman living next door to her decided to step outside today—she doubted old Mrs. Priestess would take kindly to the amount of skin Mor was showing in her frilly, ocean-blue outfit. 

Her _other_ neighbour, however… Mor reddened as she recalled the day they’d first met. She’d just returned from a particularly raucous night out, stumbling through the halls in a drunken stupor, and she’d collapsed right on her doorstep, falling fast asleep on the dirty carpet. And out of everyone on her floor, it had to be her stupidly handsome neighbour who’d discovered her prostrate in the hallway. She’d never forget the image that she’d woken up to: a pair of concerned, hazel eyes, and a calloused hand pressed gently to her throat as he checked her pulse. Evidently, she hadn’t been dead, but she’d definitely wished it were so when her eyes had fluttered open and he’d promptly jumped a foot away from her, not even giving her the chance to utter a humiliated _thank you_ before he’d retreated into his own apartment, as swift and quiet as a wraith. 

Since then, they’d only exchanged polite _hello’s_ when they occasionally crossed paths. But that one time, it appeared, had been enough to discourage both of them from being adults and acting like neighbours. 

Rather inconvenient, since Mor had quickly developed a terrible crush on the poor man. Ridiculous really, given their very brief, very awkward history. But it didn’t change the way her stomach flipped every time she caught a glimpse of him, nor the way her skin tingled when their hands accidentally brushed in the narrow corridor… no. Her crush was just that—something to suffer from a distance while it lasted, and to never, _ever,_ act on. 

So, when she witnessed the man himself stride onto his balcony in a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt soaked through with sweat, her anxiety was palpable. The muscles roping his arms rippled as he reached up, grabbed his shirt by the collar and pulled it over his head, ruffling night-dark hair just long enough to run her fingers through. Mor’s mouth went dry. There wasn’t a part of his body that wasn’t muscular, and she tried in vain not to imagine what his toned stomach and chest would feel like under her hands. This was _bad._ He surely hadn’t noticed her since he was facing the street, watching passerby as she had been minutes ago. Mind racing, Mor rapidly debated the pros and cons of staying outside—the benefit being a desperately-needed reprieve from the stifling air in her apartment, though she’d risk being seen by the man she was infatuated with, wearing nothing but a blue bikini. 

As if he could sense her staring, his head whipped towards where she was still lounging, considerably less relaxed. He blinked a few times, and his eyes swept up and down her exposed body, seemingly against his will—if the sharp shake of his head that followed was any indication. Before he could say anything, she all but leapt from her chair, darting into her apartment like a frightened animal. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ If he hadn’t thought she was weird already, he definitely did now. And more, she doubted she’d forget seeing him shirtless anytime soon, and he’d seen her in a similar state of undress. Mor had never been shy about her body, but there was something about the way his eyes had widened, the way his full lips parted slightly that had made her self-conscious enough to retreat into the safety of her flat. 

Breathing in the hot, recycled air felt like inhaling fire, despite the incessant hum of the fans, and Mor finally accepted the reality that there was truly no way to escape this cruel weather. So she stripped completely and took a shower, running the water as cold as it would go. She told herself it was just to beat the heat. 

 

* * *

 

One of the things that Mor appreciated most about Prythian was its notable lack of insect life, which meant that once night fell, she could at last let some cool air into her apartment without inviting in a swarm of biting insects. It also meant that she could lie outside in the dark and not have to worry about being eaten alive by mosquitoes. 

After her blissfully cold shower, Mor had twisted her long, blonde hair into a knot on the top of her head and chose to suffer the miserable air in her apartment for the rest of the afternoon, detesting the idea of returning outside while the dark-haired, dark-eyed male was enjoying a calm afternoon. She told herself that it was for the best, and that it was only fair. She had spent a good deal of time outside already, after all; it was his turn to repose undisturbed under the Prythian sun. 

As immature as she knew it had been, she’d waited until evening before deigning to come out of her flat, peeking her head outside every so often until her beautiful neighbour was no longer sunbathing. And even then, she’d given it another hour in case he’d only retreated inside momentarily before she decided that it was safe to resume her position on the lounge chair. 

Now, running her finger appreciatively along the white line on her skin where her bathing suit had previously lain, Mor sat back outside under the light of moon, counting the smattering of stars above her. The night air felt heavenly on her sweat-damp skin, and she sighed indulgently when a gentle breeze drifted over her. 

The stars were resplendent, glowing like tiny torches in the pitch-black sky, as if they rebelled against the idea of the city lights stealing their shine. 

_Fifty-two, fifty-three_ … She lost count again. Mor routinely found that there were more stars in the sky than there appeared to be, when she took the time to count them. Tilting her head back against the wooden chair, she let her eyes slip shut, giving them, too, a reprieve from the day’s efforts. _I could fall asleep like this._

Just as Mor was about to succumb to her comfort-induced drowsiness, she heard the unmistakeable squeal of a patio door sliding open. For the first time in the many months that she’d been living here, she desperately hoped it was Mrs. Priestess coming to lecture her on the sins she was committing in her immodest clothing. 

No such luck. 

Thankfully, she’d ditched the blue swimsuit in favour of loose, linen shorts and a thin t-shirt, but that didn’t change her impending mortification if her unfairly attractive neighbour were to catch her outside again. She sat up and planted her bare feet on the ground, collecting the book she’d abandoned minutes ago in favour of stargazing. 

But before she could uncoil to her feet, a low, male voice that should have been too soft to travel across balconies spoke to her. “You don’t have to go,” it insisted. She suppressed a shiver. And for all of her determination to avoid embarrassment at all costs, Mor relented, swinging her legs over the chair and reversing her position to face the man. _For dignity’s sake._

Without the harsh rays of the sun illuminating his face, he was softer around the edges—his chiseled, angular features less sharp in the shadows. His hazel eyes were luminescent, appearing to borrow light from the stars and the city; and they bored into hers, candid and sincere. 

“Why did you leave, before?” he asked, in a voice like darkness given sound. She searched his face: his expression was unreadable, but not unkind. It didn’t change the fact that Mor didn’t have a coherent answer to give him. 

Trying to sound as blithe as possible, she replied, “It was getting too hot for me, and I figured I’d been outside for long enough.” Despite the several feet between them, she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Because your apartment is so much cooler?” he offered, with a feigned indifference that put hers to shame. Mor’s cheeks heated, knowing she’d been caught in her lie, but she stubbornly refused to break eye contact. 

“No, but my shower was.” A partial truth, and she gave a sly tilt to her lips, not sure if she was hoping that she’d put an end to their discussion. 

“Fair point,” he conceded, effortlessly flicking the cap off of a bottle of beer and taking a long swig. She followed the bob of his throat as he swallowed, looking swiftly away when he lowered it from his mouth. “But then, why would you leave now? It’s a lovely evening, and much cooler than this afternoon.” There was a frankness in his eyes as he directed the question at her, as if he was genuinely curious as to why the woman whom he’d seen both drunk and half-naked—and at different times—wouldn’t want to take up his space. _He doesn’t know that you’re in love with him,_ Mor reminded herself. Without that essential piece of information, her behaviour did seem considerably less logical. 

Grasping for a plausible explanation that didn’t involve admitting her entirely inappropriate feelings towards a man whose name was still a mystery to her, she replied, “I suppose I wanted to give you the option to enjoy your evening in solitude.” She phrased it like a question; and as such, he offered her a response. 

“I appreciate that. But I wouldn’t mind the company,” he admitted without an ounce of insecurity. 

Damn her straight to hell, she couldn’t bite her tongue as her next words came rushing out. “But why _my_ company?” Her incredulity was honest, but she cursed herself nonetheless for asking, especially since there was a very small chance that he hadn’t remembered who she was. A _very_ small chance. 

“Why not?” he reiterated. “Because I found you passed out on your doorstep several weeks ago?” So he _did_ remember, as she’d suspected. To her credit, she still met his eyes unflinchingly even as she felt herself flush several shades of red. “That’s hardly a reason to avoid me. Though,” he amended, “I suppose I’m equally as guilty. Is that really all it is?” Despite his impressive nonchalance, he seemed unable to hold back the question, though his perfect face was as immovable as ever. 

And maybe she was sleep-deprived, or maybe she had heatstroke, because she threw caution completely to the wind and confessed, “I’ve had a crush on you since I first moved in and then I embarrassed myself in front of you and when you came outside without a shirt on I ran away.” 

A shocked silence hung between them in the wake of her sudden outburst, and Mor finally succeeded in breaking away from his glowing, hazel-eyed gaze, sure he would officially revoke his invitation to keep him company. But once again, she was proven wrong. 

His midnight voice held a faint trace of amusement as he responded, “I thought I took my shirt off _outside_.” And it was such an unexpected thing to say after Mor’s admission that she barked a laugh. A startled passerby looked up curiously towards the noise. 

“That’s true…” she said carefully, unsure as to why he was so calm in the face of this new, damning information. But this time, she kept her mouth shut and refrained from asking him. 

He didn’t speak for a disconcerting moment, and then he said, more slowly, “If that’s true, then it appears we have more in common than occasional inebriation and a tendency to show skin on a hot day.” She looked back up at him, replaying the words a few times in her head. _Is he saying what I think he’s saying?_

When she remained mute, completely dumbfounded, his lips formed a small smile. 

“Would you like to go out for a drink with me?” Her heart shuddered to a stop. A crease formed between her brows, her disbelief evident on her face, and his low laugh slithered down her spine as he continued, “I know a place that’s still open, if you’re available tonight.”

Convinced that she was mishearing, she repeated, “You want to have a drink with me? Tonight?” His smile tilted sideways. 

“Yes, I do believe that is what I asked.” 

Getting a grip on herself and calming her racing heart, she finally gave him a reply. “Then yes. I’d like that very much. Meet me in the hall in five minutes?” When he acquiesced, she couldn’t help the giddy grin that bloomed on her face, and she thought she saw it reflected on his before he disappeared into the shadows. 

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, after changing into denim shorts and electing to leave on her lightweight shirt, Mor slid her feet into a pair of cheap, comfortable sandals and grabbed her clutch. When she entered the hall, he was resting comfortably against his door, wearing slim, black jeans and a close-fitting white shirt, both unsuccessfully hiding the lean muscle that seemed to cover every inch of his body. He stood almost a head taller than her, and up close, she could truly appreciate the small, nearly undetectable smile on his lips. 

“Hey,” she sang, less shy now that she was certain he didn’t hate her or think she was a drunk delinquent afraid of shirtless men. 

“Hey.” His deep, smooth voice had a pleasant, sensual timbre to it, she thought, now that she wasn’t straining to hear him over a distance.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, actually,” Mor admitted, biting her lip. “What’s your name?” She found it amusing that they’d stubbornly neglected something as trivial as exchanging names for such a long time, despite being neighbours, and despite having had innumerable chances to do so.

“Azriel,” he said. Inexplicably, it felt right. A dark, seductive name for a dark, seductive man. 

“I’m Morrigan,” she replied, extending a hand, “but you are under no circumstances to call me that.” When he took her hand, those same callouses that had been pressed against her pulse point all that time ago scratched against her comparatively soft skin, and she couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like if they were to travel elsewhere on her body. 

“What am I to call you then?” he asked simply, breaking Mor out of her wholly inappropriate, ill-timed thoughts. 

“Mor,” she affirmed. 

“Mor, then.” And damn her if she didn’t love the way her name tasted in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, then added, “officially.”

Mor chuckled. “Likewise. Now, where is this place you were alluding to? I’d kill for a cold drink.” 

 

* * *

 

Though the previous night had been crisp and delightfully cool, the following day was just as mercilessly hot as the one before. So Mor was once again sunbathing, her skin slowly darkening under the unforgiving Prythian sun. Her warm lemonade lay on the ground, forgotten, as she surveyed the usual rush of people below her, inventing stories for them and listening to the soft cacophony of the city.

Only this time, she’d taken Azriel up on his offer to keep him company, not running away when he stepped outside, gloriously shirtless. Beautiful, alluring tattoos swept in graceful lines over his shoulders and chest, the black ink stark against his tanned, olive skin. 

He didn’t seem to mind the fact that she was once again clad in her tiny blue bikini, either, as he sat down on the seat pushed up beside hers, his muscles flexing in various interesting places as he got comfortable. Mor decided then and there that the view from his balcony was _much_ better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was pretty lighthearted, so I hope I did them justice! Let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr :)


	5. Sing Your Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following prompts: You hear someone singing in the shower - they have a really nice voice / "I was singing one of the cheesy duets from a Disney movie and I guess you heard it because you’re singing the other part so we’re both going with it ok cool"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it would appear that I never pick just one prompt to do at a time, so here's another one for you guys. I hope you enjoy!

Prythian University was a very well-renowned school, and for good reason. It offered excellent classes; the staff were devoted and knowledgeable; the extracurricular activities were many and varied, and the tuition was affordable. Their student accommodation, however, left something to be desired. 

For the most part, their shortcomings weren’t life-altering, but there was one particular issue with the Prythian U dorms that Nesta could not stand: the communal, co-ed showers. She despised having to share bathing space, particularly with men. In Nesta’s opinion, they were all filthy, uncaring, misogynistic pigs, and she did everything in her power to avoid them. Of course, this became increasingly difficult when she was forced to wash right next to them. 

That was why Nesta only ever showered at night. There were others, of course, who shared the same logic, but she was determined; she went _only_ once everyone had left, which was usually sometime after ten o’clock at night. So far, this tactic had been extremely effective, and she had yet to encounter anyone—female or male—that late in the evening. 

After she let Mor know where she was going, Nesta gathered her toiletries and a clean towel and made her way down to the bathing room. Following her usual routine, she checked every shower, making sure no one else had gotten the same idea as her. Finding it void of other students, Nesta stripped and stepped into her favourite stall: the one with the warmest water and the most space, if only by a little bit. 

One other benefit to having the room to herself was that Nesta was free to sing without fear of being overheard. It was a hidden, protected passion—one that few knew about. And even fewer knew how talented she was at it. If she had her way, no one ever would.

She closed her eyes. Last night, Elain had interrupted her study session and managed to cajole her into watching Aladdin with her, so she wasn’t surprised when the first notes of its memorable duet slipped through her lips. 

_“I can show you the world—shining, shimmering splendid. Tell me, princess, now when did you last let your heart decide…”_

This was one of the places where Nesta was happiest. Alone, with only the falling water for company, she was free to be herself, to exercise a passion that she seldom had the chance to enjoy.

_“A whole new world, a new, fantastic point of view. No one to tell us no, or where to go, or say we’re only dreaming…”_

Her soft, haunting voice echoed around the large room, clear as a bell over the sound of rushing water, and she let the music envelop her. So it was no surprise that the sound of a second shower being turned on went completely unnoticed. But it was impossible to miss the shock of hearing a second voice, a _male_ voice, join hers. 

_“A whole new world, a dazzling place I never knew. But when I’m way up here, it’s crystal clear that now I’m in a whole new world with you…”_

It was almost enough to startle her into stopping her song; but Nesta was never one to be shown up. So she continued singing.

_“Now I’m in a whole new world with you…”_

Nesta would never admit this to anyone, but his deep, melodic voice raised goosebumps on her skin as he sang the other part in their duet; it was a low, resonant baritone, as warm and rich as caramel, and she was desperate to know who the bearer of such incredible talent was. But she had no intention whatsoever of revealing her own identity, so she stayed resolutely behind her curtain. 

_“Unbelievable sights, indescribable feeling. Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling through and endless diamond sky…”_

Their voices blended together seamlessly, his deep, heart-rending tone fusing with her moving, operatic sound. If anyone else had walked in, they would have witnessed magic in its purest form. 

When they sang the final chord, perfectly in tune, perfectly together, Nesta debated beginning another song. It was such a rare thing, to be given the chance to make music, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sang for someone—let alone _with_ someone. Maybe not ever. 

But her skin was already starting to wrinkle under the flowing water, and she’d long since finished washing. And she’d be damned if anyone found out her secret; so she wrapped her towel tightly around her short, lithe body, picked up her bathing products, and hurried out of the room, not making a sound. 

Even though she was curious to know who the man with the golden voice was, she had no desire to have her own identity made known. So she didn’t look back as she rushed back to her dorm room, ignoring the small, persistent, stupid hope that she might see him—or hear him—again. 

 

* * *

 

He never came back, the man she’d made music with. Nesta wasn’t surprised—that had been the first time anyone had taken a shower as late as she normally did. Disappointment was not a word in Nesta’s vocabulary, but if it was, what she was feeling would likely come very close. 

But she wasn’t going to start showering earlier in the hopes of meeting him again, so she continued her routine, still finding pleasure in singing alone. Though she found herself choosing to practice duets more and more often. 

 

* * *

 

About two months had passed since the duet. _Their_ duet, Nesta thought, even though a stubborn part of her wanted to insist that it had been hers—she _had_ started it. After a month of showering alone, she’d almost completely forgotten that it had happened. She no longer harboured secret hopes of encountering her impromptu singing partner during a late-night shower. 

“Mor, I’ll be back in a bit, ok?” Nesta panted. Volleyball practice had gone late that evening, given their upcoming game against Primavera—the swanky private college across the city. She was exhausted and debated skipping her nightly shower so that she could tumble into bed, as she desperately wanted to. But hygiene won over in the end, and she made her way down to the showers a good hour later than usual. _At least,_ she thought, _there’s an even slimmer chance of running into anyone._

She turned the water as hot as it would go and tilted her head back under the stream, letting the all of the sweat and dirt rinse away. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of a song to sing. 

But someone beat her to it. 

She was startled out of her reverie when she heard another shower in the room turn on. Brief, fleeting hope was quickly replaced with annoyance that she’d have to spend her normally peaceful shower in silence. She sighed, beginning to wash more quickly so she could get out of there. But then she heard it. 

_“I don’t know you, but I want you all the more for that…”_

Her heart stopped dead in her chest as a molten, nearly-forgotten voice carried through the room. She only had a moment to make a decision before the phrase would change and the song would go on without her. So she sucked in a breath, and sang with him once more. 

_“Words fall through me and always fool me, and I can’t react…”_

She was sure she could hear the smile in his voice as he breathed the next line, as they sang together, filling the humid air with beautiful, dulcet harmonies. Nesta hadn’t realized—not fully, at least—how much she’d been hoping for the chance to do this again. To sing was such a pure and sacred thing, and to share that gift unabashedly with a complete stranger was something that she had privately wished wouldn’t be a one-off. So she sang with all of her heart, two loud voices in a quiet room with only the water to keep their secret. 

_“Take this sinking boat and point it home. We’ve still got time…”_

_“Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice. You’ll make it now…”_

There was something about music that made Nesta feel clean; there was something about it that cleansed her in a way that soap and water never could. And she smiled as she and her partner sang the last line together. 

_“Falling slowly, sing your melody. I’ll sing along.”_

As the final notes finished resonating, she heard his shower turn off; this time, she supposed, it was his turn to run away. She just hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. But before he left, she heard him speak.

“A friend of mine is hosting a karaoke night at Rita’s tomorrow night—you should come. I won’t ask for your name.” Where his singing voice was like melted chocolate—rich and sweet, there was something more rugged about the way he spoke. It was smokier, less heartfelt passion and more untamed amusement. And she swore she could _hear_ him wink on his way out. 

 

* * *

 

Nesta warred with herself all the next day. If she went to Rita’s, she might get to lay eyes on her mystery duet partner. But did she even want to? There was something exciting about the anonymity of the shower, the way that their voices were their only identifiers. But she’d always been an inquisitive woman—and this was the perfect way to harmlessly satiate her nagging curiosity. 

Most importantly, and this was her biggest hesitation: no one knew that she could sing. Feyre did, because she’d accidentally walked in on Nesta showering one time. But her little sister had sworn to keep her secret. Was she willing to reveal this intimate, private part of her soul for a man she didn’t know? _It wouldn’t be for him_ , she countered silently. And he hadn’t specified that she had to _perform_ —only that she should come. 

It was that notion alone that convinced her.

She didn’t tell Mor where she was going, since her roommate would likely want to join her; and this was something she wanted to do alone. 

Nesta had been to Rita’s before, as it was the only bar on campus, and she took a seat at a booth near the small stage, closer than she and her friends usually sat. Her plan was simple: hide in the audience, watch the performances, and listen for the familiar voice. He hadn’t said outright that he was going to sing, but it had been implied. At the very least, she’d gotten out of the house—she spent far too much time in the library, according to Mor. 

A few minutes after she arrived, the manager of the bar strode onstage and took the mic. “Good evening, ladies and gents. How are we doing this evening?” A few quiet _good’s_ and some unintelligible murmurs. “I see midterm season’s hitting you guys hard… well let us take all of that off of your mind for a few hours. Brought to you by the Prythian U music society, tonight is our first ever karaoke night! Here are the rules: the sign-up sheet is there—“ she indicated a small desk by the stage where a pen and paper sat in wait, “—and every performer gets a free pint after singing. First up, we’ve got Sidra, singing City of Stars.” The applause was slightly less tepid as the announcer left the stage and passed the mic to a tall young woman with long, raven-black hair. 

_She’s got a good voice,_ thought Nesta as she listened to Sidra perform the popular tune. When the song ended, the applause was much more emphatic, and she smiled bashfully as she stepped down and returned to her group of friends, all of who were smiling and doling out compliments. 

“Next up,” the manager— _Rita,_ Nesta realized belatedly—“we’ve got Tarquin, who’ll be singing Can’t Help Falling in Love.” 

And so the evening went. Nesta cradled her pint of Guinness, listening to singers both good and bad. It only took a few performances before students began swarming the small table to sign up. Part of her itched to; part of her wanted to get onstage and show everyone in that bar—and herself—what she was capable of. Never mind that she’d already swept the room for familiar faces and found none; if she _did_ deign to sing, she wouldn’t have to deal with raving, incredulous friends. But stubborn pride kept her firmly planted in her seat. 

Over ten performances later—ranging from broadway show tunes to impressively fast-paced raps—Rita ascended the stage again. “Can I get a round of applause for all of the amazing singers we’ve had so far?” Loud, enthusiastic clapping, and even a few whistles. “That’s what I like to hear! But the night’s not over yet, ladies and gents, and let me tell you—you’re in for a real treat with our next singer. Please welcome Cassian, the auditor of the music society, who will be singing…” Rita peered down at the page in her hand, squinting, “I suppose it’ll be a surprise. Take it away, Cass,” she shouted as a shockingly handsome man stepped onto the stage. 

Dark, wavy hair was swept off of his face and tied back in a loose, messy bun; the stage lights illuminated several stray pieces, though he somehow managed to make it look intentional. His features were strong, rough-hewn, and there was an undeniable wildness in his eyes—if it weren’t for the giant, goofy grin on his face, he might have been intimidating. He was tall enough that he had to adjust the microphone stand to reach high enough to rest level with his mouth and even then, it was still a little bit too low. 

“Hey, guys,” he called, taking the mic off of the too-short stand and waving a broad hand at the audience. “Like our lovely Rita said, I’m Cassian, auditor of Prythian U’s music society, and tonight I’ll be singing Falling Slowly for you all.” 

Nesta’s mouth fell open. He sent a wink into the crowd and began swaying as the intro started playing. _It could be a coincidence,_ she considered. But it wasn’t exactly a popular song. As he took a breath, Nesta took one with him. 

_“I don’t know you, but I want you all the more for that.”_

His smooth, decadent voice was unmistakeable as he sang the same words that they both had last night. Nesta gaped. 

If she hadn’t been staring at him as intently as she had been, she might not have noticed the way his eyes casually scanned the crowd, as if he was searching for someone. She had no doubt as to who that someone was. 

His voice resonated differently in the small bar than it had in the tiled shower room. Instead of echoing around the vast space, each note was clear and controlled, but with an ardor that made it infinitely more real and heartfelt. There was something about the way he looked up on the stage that reminded Nesta of how she felt when she sang. Happy. Peaceful. _Free_. 

At last, his vigilant eyes landed on her. She kept her expression neutral: pleasant, indifferent, unrecognizing. But what she didn't realize was that she was unconsciously mouthing the words. That was her giveaway. His voice didn’t falter as he sang, but there was a smile in his eyes as he looked at her longer than he had looked at anyone else in the room during his search. 

For most of the song, his attention was evenly divided; he made every patron feel as if they were part of the performance, and Nesta noticed more than a few girls making cow-eyes at him when he directed a lyric their way. But when he made it to the last line, his eyes were on her. 

_“Falling slowly, sing your melody. I’ll sing along.”_

Everyone in the room cheered, and the applause was the loudest it had been all evening as Cassian shouted, “Thank you,” and sauntered offstage, handing the mic back to Rita. As Nesta had suspected—and feared, after he checked in with a small group of friends near the stage, he made his way over to her booth. In a matter of moments, the man with whom she’d sung cheesy duets in their dorm showers, to whom she’d unwittingly bared her most vulnerable self, was right in front of her, speaking to her in a voice like flame and wind and smoke. 

“You came.” He smiled at her in way that suggested he was aiming to charm, and that this tactic had worked before. So she, like him, put on a face that had proved effective in similar situations and shrugged her lean shoulders.

“I had nothing better to do.” Where she thought he might be taken aback by her aloofness, he just smirked at her. There was nothing cruel or derisive about it; it served only as affirmation that they both knew her cold façade wasn't fooling anyone. There was something about music that stripped a person down to their soul—it made people honest, sometimes against their will. 

“May I sit?” he asked, and in a gesture of politeness that Nesta was not accustomed to, he waited until she nodded to slide into the seat across from her. Up close, his powerful, muscled body was more appreciable, and she felt minuscule in comparison. But she was short by normal standards, so she was used to the feeling; she wouldn’t balk, even in front of this hulking man. 

“It’s nice to finally meet my duet partner,” he stated, a spark in his eyes, which were at once green and brown. The two shades seemed to fight for dominance, swirling and merging in such a way that Nesta could not perceive one without the other. It was… intriguing.

“You aren’t what I was expecting,” she admitted plainly. Indeed, the fact that a voice so gentle and rich and pure could come from a man who looked like something forged out of fire and steel was astonishing, to say the least. But then, Nesta was certain no one would believe that she, as remarkably tiny as she was, could belt as powerfully as she had proven she could. 

His eyes sparkled. “And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” 

“Neither. Just an observation.”

“Well, then let me observe that _you_ are a truly incredible singer, sweetheart.” The pet name irritated her, but she let him continue. “Would you consider taking a turn up there? Give all of these wannabes a run for their money?” The jab was lighthearted, as the talent in the room was quite impressive; there were only a few acts that had been unarguably unpleasant, but even then, everyone was kind and clapped for them nonetheless. 

She tried to keep up her impassive demeanour, but he seemed to be able to detect the subtle changes in her expression. The hesitation, the disbelief, the anxiety. Without judgment, he insisted, “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Really, we’re all just a bunch of dorks having a good time. And you’ve got the pipes for it.” 

In truth, she was dying to exercise her voice anywhere other than behind a shower curtain. But she was terrified. In all of the time that she’d been singing, she’d never once performed publicly. In fact, she’d never sang in front of anyone at all until her spontaneous duet with the man seated in front of her, who was wearing an at once amused and comprehending expression.

“Stage fright? I get it—no pressure if you don’t want to.” She refused to confirm his statement, but she was nonetheless grateful for his intuition. “I’ll tell you what: if you ever tire of singing in the shower, there’ll be another karaoke night next week, if you’re feeling courageous by then.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Nesta replied offhand, though she was already considering it.

“Good,” he replied. “But until then, would you be interested in grabbing a drink with me?” She lifted a brow, shooting a glance at the full pint of beer he’d placed in front of her, and he chuckled—a low, deep sound that rumbled in his chest and travelled right down Nesta’s spine. “I meant sometime this week,” he clarified, knowing full well that she was aware of that. 

“Alright.” Her immediate, decisive response shocked her more than it appeared to shock Cassian, and he beamed. Though her her face remained as outwardly stony as ever, she was admittedly quite pleased with the sudden turn of events. Here she was, talking to the man with whom she’d sang duets with on two separate occasions—and in the shower, no less. With whom she’d just arranged a date. 

“One more thing,” he added, tilting his head to the side. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Again, the endearment grated on her nerves, but she ignored it. And just as the answer was about to leap off of her tongue, she bit it back. She could tell him outright, but where would the fun be in that? So instead, she smirked, sharp and dangerous where his was lazy and confident. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She lifted a brow archly. 

“Yes, I would,” he said simply, his grin becoming feral. “And I’d be willing to—” 

One of the students in his group yelled for him, cutting him off, and he gave her an apologetic smile. He had been about to say something else, likely something remarkably stupid, but Nesta found herself annoyed that she hadn’t gotten the chance to hear it. 

“Duty calls,” he complained, rolling his eyes. And with that, he uncoiled to his feet in a graceful motion entirely incongruent with the size of his body, and jogged over to his group of friends. 

Nesta checked her phone—it was getting late, and she figured that she really had no further reason to stick around, so she decided it was about time to head home. Absentmindedly humming their song (she told herself that it was for convenience’s sake that she was referring to it as such), she got up and headed towards the door. Her eyes drifted towards Cassian’s entourage when she reached the door, and she made eye contact with him before she swung it open. In that one, brief look, silent promises were exchanged and an agreement was formed between them. They’d find each other at some point—perhaps in the shower once again. A quiet laugh whispered out of her, and she couldn’t help the tentative smile that pushed itself past her defences once she stepped outside into the balmy night. It didn’t fade for the entire walk home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! I got the title of this story from the song Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová.
> 
> Let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr :)


	6. Holding Onto Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the following prompt: "You are already dating someone else, and during our love potion unit, you get asked to explain what you smell, and of course you’re gonna be smelling things that describe your partner right? But then why are you explicitly describing me…?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovelies! I've been dying to do a Hogwarts AU for some time now, so here's what I came up with! I hope you enjoy :)

Feyre didn’t understand how anyone could find Potions class boring. Maybe she was biased—after all, she did have a commendable talent for them—but it was impossible to argue that they weren’t _fascinating_. They were infinitely versatile, giving the brewer the power to alter, enhance, weaken, injure, even kill—or, as the potions master was saying, to engineer love. 

“As you all know,” he explained, “Amortentia does not have the power to create real love—only an intense, powerful obsession. Of course, the strength of the infatuation depends on the skill of the potioneer, but there has not been a witch or wizard to date who has successfully managed to replicate _true_ love. Now, can someone tell me what the most distinct feature of this potion is? Other than the obvious, of course.” 

She couldn’t fathom hating this class—not when the professor was this excited to teach it.

“Its scent,” a bright voice called, coming from a Hufflepuff girl in the back row. 

“Very good, Miss Summers. What about its scent, specifically?” Biting her lip, Feyre slowly raised her hand. 

“Yes, Miss Archeron.”

“Its scent is different for everyone, according to what attracts them.” Her face warmed, the same way it did every time she answered a question in class, and the dark-haired Slytherin male to her left shot her a wink. She stifled a groan, though her lips tugged up at the corners.

Rhysand was the biggest pain in the ass Feyre had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Irksome, arrogant, all cocky smirks and winks; he was the epitome of the male heartthrob. He knew it, too.

They were famous—everyone in their year knew about their legendary rivalry, which had been going on since first year. They’d gradually—almost reluctantly—become close friends, but they still reserved an impressive amount of snark and sarcasm for each other. And unbeknownst to them, nearly every fifth-year student had bet money on them: namely, guessing whether they’d duel or date first. 

“Exactly.” Her professor grinned. “For example,” he leaned over the cauldron and took a long inhale, probably more for the students’ benefit than his own, “I smell rosemary, new books, muggle coffee, and…” he blushed faintly, “the muggle hand soap that my husband likes. So you see, it’s entirely dependent on the witch or wizard.” 

Furrowing her brow, Feyre tried to imagine what hers would smell like. But she came up empty. 

Reaching into his cloak, their professor pulled out an aged timepiece and frowned at it. “Unfortunately, we have less time left than I had hoped. We’ll get the chance to try brewing this next class, but before I let you go, let’s test it out, shall we?” When the class erupted into giggles and murmurs, Rhys wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Feyre, he quickly backtracked. “No no, I’m not going to make you take the potion—I’d be fired faster than you could say Polyjuice. What I meant was… Miss Archeron. Since you were the one to correctly answer my question, why don’t you do the honours? Come up here, tell us what the potion smells like for you.” 

Everyone turned towards her. She could feel her face reddening as thirty pairs of eyes watched her stand from her seat, including one set of glittering violet _._ She met them fleetingly, and Feyre could feel him smirking at her back as she strode to the front of the class. 

When she reached the cauldron, she peered over it and took a closer look at the steaming, pearlescent liquid. She took a deep breath. The fumes filled her up like a hot drink, rich and heady and seductive. Its scent evoked memories of juicy summer citrus, salty ocean spray from the time she and her sisters had visited the beach, freshly fallen rain, and a soothing floral scent—jasmine, she decided. _Probably from Elain’s garden_. 

“Tell us, dear. What do you smell?” He looked at her encouragingly. But inexplicably, she didn’t want to tell the truth. Something about the feelings that the potion had induced made her want to hoard her scent like a prized jewel. So she made something up. 

When he softly cleared his throat, Feyre sputtered, “Um… roses, pumpkin juice, pizza, and… fresh paint.” Instinctively, she glanced at Rhys, who lifted a brow infinitesimally higher. And she knew he’d seen right through her lie.

But her professor was none the wiser, if his enthusiastic, “Excellent!” was any indication; and neither was the rest of the class. Save for Rhysand, who gave her a highly suspicious look as she sat back down. She ignored it. 

“That’s it for today, I’m afraid. Class dismissed.” In a cacophony of scraping chairs, clinking glass, and muttered cleaning spells, everyone filed out of the classroom. A little more hurriedly than normal, Feyre made her way to the Slytherin common room, hoping to avoid the violet-eyed man who seemed keen on having a word with her. If she could just get to her bedroom—

“Hello, Feyre darling,” he crooned, appearing next to her so suddenly she thought he might have Apparated. “Would you perhaps like to inform me as to why you lied bold-faced to an unsuspecting group of students this evening?” No preamble, then. His wry smile was infuriating, but it betrayed honest curiosity. 

“Not particularly,” she hissed, walking faster. He followed her, but wisely stayed a few paces behind, only coming face-to-face with her once they’d entered the Slytherin common room. She tried in vain to get past him to the safety of the girls’ dormitories, but he blocked her path, crossing his arms and drumming his long fingers against his bicep. 

“Now, would you like to tell me what that was all about? And don’t tell me you’ve developed a liking for pumpkin juice all of a sudden.” Indeed, Feyre _hated_ the drink, but she’d been under duress when she’d answered the potion master’s question. “Why did you lie?” he asked again, and there was genuine concern in voice. 

Rhysand had a way of making Feyre feel like she could confide in him, like he’d keep her secrets—no matter how dark—and never judge her for them. And in the past, it had proven to be an instinct worth listening to, as he’d done just that on countless occasions. So she found herself speaking before she could stop herself. 

Unsurprisingly, it was difficult to articulate how she’d felt—that strange desire to protect what the potion had given her. “I guess it just felt… private,” she tried. “There was something about the way it felt, the memories it summoned, that made me hesitant to tell everyone. Like they’d read into it, maybe.” She trailed off. 

A partial truth, though there was more to it than that, Feyre was certain. While her professor seemed to understand the origin of each of the things he’d scented, hers felt disjointed; she didn’t understand most of what had risen from the golden liquid. But Rhys seemed mollified by her answer, if not entirely convinced. 

“What was it like?” he inquired. His eyes held a comic, boyish wonder that made Feyre snort. 

“I didn’t know you were a romantic,” she teased as they both took a seat on one of the plush, green leather couches. 

“On the contrary, my darling Feyre.” She rolled her eyes at the familiar endearment as Rhys conjured a blanket out of nowhere and spread it over them. “As you can see,” a swish of his wand and a fire was roaring in the hearth, “I’m quite the charmer.” Feyre huffed a laugh.

“Get a room,” Mor trilled as she breezed into view, grinning from ear to ear. 

“What’s got you looking so chipper?” asked Rhys, eyebrows raised. 

“Guess who got an O on their Transfiguration OWL?” She waved a piece of parchment in front of her, no doubt proof of her Outstanding score, and Feyre beamed at her. 

“That’s amazing, Mor—congratulations.” Mor had been studying for Transfiguration nonstop for the past month, barely taking time off to eat or sleep, and she was happy that her friend’s hard work had paid off. 

“Now I’ve just got to cover Ancient Runes and Potions. Feyre, will you help me with that later? I’m no good at memorizing recipes.” 

“Of course.” _Does she ever stop working?_ Feyre wondered incredulously.

“No,” Rhys muttered, “she doesn’t.” Sometimes Feyre forgot how talented Rhysand was at Legilimency. He’d promised her, when she’d found out about his unusual, hidden skill, that he would never use it against her, nor would he invade her mind without her permission. But he’d also explained to her that if someone’s thoughts were strong enough, loud enough, he could hear them without trying. 

“You’re too easy to read, Feyre darling,” he’d told her once. “Your thoughts are usually written all over your face—you don’t need to be a Legilimens to see them.” She supposed it was true, at least for him. 

Mor shook her head, rolling her eyes at their private discourse, and headed to the girls’ dormitories. 

Once Mor was out of sight, Rhys turned to Feyre again.

“What was it like?” he repeated. A vague question. One she could answer directly, or skirt around. He’d given her the choice. 

She contemplated telling him what it had smelled like—what scents she’d gotten from the potion’s swirling fumes. But she didn’t know what to make of them herself; and somehow, giving up a part of her soul that even she didn’t understand felt too intimate, even with Rhys. _Especially_ with Rhys, though she didn’t want to think about why. So she said simply, “It feels like… imagine breathing in Butterbeer. Hot and sweet, and it leaves you feeling…” she took a moment to search for the right word. ”Content.” 

He nodded, his genuine interest doing a good job of hiding his mild disappointment—though Feyre saw through it. Perhaps she’d tell him later. But for now, she steered the conversation away from talk of love potions, and retreated back to their usual banter, scents of citrus and jasmine forgotten for the time being. 

 

* * *

 

When Feyre woke up, she didn’t immediately recognize her surroundings. She wasn’t in her bed, and… she took in the dying fire, the soft feeling of leather against her cheek, and the amusement on Rhys’s beautiful face as he smirked at her from an armchair across the room. 

“Sleep well?” he drawled, chuckling softly. She _had_ been pulling long hours lately, studying for OWLs and struggling to keep up with the near-constant deluge of homework. She also remembered, belatedly, that Amortentia had the tendency to make the drinker drowsy, once its primary effects wore off; she supposed the deep breath she’d taken had been enough for the latent sleepiness to set in. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, noticing that Rhys’s oversized blanket had been carefully draped over her. She ignored the bloom of warmth in her chest from the kind gesture, instead facing her friend’s infuriatingly bemused face. 

“How long was I asleep?” she asked through a yawn. 

“Only an hour or two,” he replied, still smirking. “Don’t worry, I didn’t draw on your face this time.” She glared daggers at him. The last time she’d fallen asleep in his company, he’d drawn a mustache on her upper lip with an enchanted marker. Needless to say, it hadn’t come off until he willed it to. _That_ hadn't been a pleasant day for either of them. It had also been the day that Rhys discovered the true extent of Feyre’s talent for potions, when she slipped a homemade (possibly illegal) concoction into his pumpkin juice when he wasn’t looking; within minutes, he was sprouting a thick, blue and purple mustache that grew faster the more you tried to cut it. Feyre gave him a pointed look, hoping he remembered that day as clearly as she did. If the mischievous glint in his eyes was any indication, then yes, he did. 

_I’ll have to keep a closer eye on what I consume in front of you, Feyre darling,_ he said into her mind. She scowled—that never failed to unnerve her. That skill was one that few _trained_  Legilimens were capable of, let alone students—something he liked to flaunt to her whenever he was given the chance. She pushed him out of her mind like he’d taught her to, though perhaps with more force than was strictly necessary.

“That’s not very nice. Maybe I _will_ draw on you next time.” His low laugh raised chills on Feyre’s skin, despite the warmth from the fire. 

“There are other ways of poisoning someone that don’t involve ingestion, Rhysand,” she warned. He just grinned at her and uncoiled to his feet, stretching languidly. As he lifted his arms over his head, his sweater rose slightly to reveal a slice of tanned skin along his stomach, and Feyre averted her gaze before Rhys caught her staring. His ego was big enough as it was. 

He began walking towards the boys’ dormitories, but before he turned the corner, he called, “Goodnight, Feyre darling. And keep the blanket—blue looks good on you.” A wink and he was gone, not sticking around long enough to notice the pink flush that coloured Feyre’s cheeks.

She did as he suggested, wearing the blanket like a cape as she trudged sleepily to the girls’ dormitory. With a dramatic sigh, she collapsed onto her bed and crawled under the covers, spreading the blanket on top of the green and silver duvet, and she barely registered Mor’s soft, feminine laugh coming from the bed beside her before sleep overcame her.

 

* * *

 

_It was a lovely, sunny day, and the water was the perfect temperature for swimming. Elain and Nesta were sprawled next to her, laying back and absorbing the sunlight as they peeled and ate juicy, ripe oranges. Sticky juice already coated Feyre’s fingers, leaving behind a fresh, sweet fragrance. It followed Feyre as she raced towards the water, kicking up sand and inhaling the distinct, salty scent of the ocean._

_The water changed from blue to grey as the sky suddenly clouded over—Feyre looked up, and a drop of water landed on her nose, then another on her bare shoulder. A gentle rain began falling, leaving little ripples in the ebbing water, and she smiled up at the sky. Distantly, Feyre could hear the sounds of her sisters’ playful shrieks as they ducked for cover from the sudden rainfall while she waded into the ocean. The water was cold against her legs, but it felt lovely paired with the humidity in the air._

_Then, she saw something float towards the shore, carried on a small wave. It stopped in front of her and she picked it up out of the water: a small, white flower sat in her cupped hands, its light, floral scent blending with the salty ocean spray. Bringing it closer to her face, she examined it, trying to decide what it was. But a male voice answered her question._

_“It’s jasmine, Feyre darling.” Nearly dropping the small bloom, Feyre whirled around towards the familiar voice—_

Her eyes flew open as she tried to collect the fragmented pieces of her dream before they faded away. But they’d mostly dissipated, leaving behind nothing more than a strange feeling of peace and comfort. 

It was then that she noticed she was clutching Rhys’s blanket to her chest, likely having reached for it in the middle of the night. The soft fabric was warm—probably enchanted to ward off the dungeon’s nagging cold—and she wrapped it more tightly around herself, pulling it up to her neck. Then the scent hit her. _Oranges, sea salt, rain, jasmine._ It was coming from the blanket— _Rhys’s_ blanket. 

She threw it to the end of the bed like it had burned her.

 

* * *

 

It was only after an hour of tossing and turning that Feyre had finally fallen asleep; and when she woke, she was once again clinging to the dark blue blanket. She had desperately hoped that her epiphany last night had merely been a terrifying extension of her peculiar dream, but after taking another hesitant sniff, her fears were confirmed: her love potion smelled like Rhysand. 

 

* * *

 

Feyre avoided Rhys all week, to his evident confusion. She might have been able to play it off as their usual lighthearted antagonism when they were in public, but when she started ignoring him and making excuses to be elsewhere when they were in the Slytherin common room, she knew he didn’t understand why. But after the second or third day, he stopped giving chase, likely understanding that for whatever reason, Feyre needed space. 

Mor, however, was not so easily dissuaded. 

“Feyre, what’s the matter?” she demanded, not unkindly, after finally managing to corner her in their dormitory. “And don’t say _nothing_ ,” she added as Feyre opened her mouth to do just that. 

“Rhys didn’t do anything wrong, if you’re wondering,” she assured her friend, who had planted herself on Feyre’s bed next to her, her green and silver Quidditch gear blending in with the bedcovers. 

“Then why are you treating him like he has Dragon Pox? I mean, I know he’s a prick—believe me, I know—but I don’t understand how you can go from cuddling each other to avoiding each other in the span of a day.”

“We _weren’t_ cuddling,” Feyre protested, a little bit too forcefully.

“Whatever you say,” Mor replied coolly, not giving up her inquisition. “You know I won’t tell him anything, right?” A small hand, calloused from years gripping a broomstick, landed on her knee and squeezed gently. “Anything you tell me stays between us.” Despite not having the same gift as her cousin, Mor could read people almost as well as Rhys could—or at least, she could read Feyre. 

And her resolve crumbled. Mor scooted closer, putting an armour-clad arm around Feyre’s lean shoulders as she went through the events of the week. But she hadn’t even gone past her explanation of potions class before Mor muttered a soft, “Ah,” comprehension clear on her lovely face. She gently poked Feyre in the ribs, her lips curving into a knowing smile. 

“I’m sorry to inform you that you are the second last person in this school to realize that, my dear.” When Feyre looked at Mor in horror, her brown eyes shone with amusement and undiluted joy. “You don’t need Amortentia to see that you two have been falling for each other since you were both sorted.” Feyre’s heartbeat picked up, Mor’s words resonating for far longer than they should have. Those easy smiles, his flippant remarks, their playful teasing, the way his eyes seemed to sparkle when he looked at her. Maybe Mor was right. 

_She is,_ a small, wise part of her responded. But she’d experienced unreciprocated love before, and she wasn’t about to to delve headfirst into its murky depths again. 

“In case you were wondering,” Mor interjected, parroting Feyre, “he feels the same way.”

“Did he tell you?” Feyre exclaimed, blinking in surprise at her unexpected outburst of emotion. 

“About as succinctly as you did. Which is to say, no.” When Feyre looked away, suddenly finding her green socks very interesting, Mor continued. “What I _mean_ is, he’s about as doe-eyed—and _oblivious_ —as you are. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s clearly in love with you. And has been for some time now.” A reassuring squeeze to Feyre’s shoulder, then, “I’ve got to go to practice, but I think you should tell him. I won’t, I promise.” And with that, she hopped up, cast a spell to clean the spot on Feyre’s bed where her Quidditch costume had shed dried mud, collected her equipment, and left Feyre to her dizzying thoughts. 

 

* * *

 

For what might have been minutes or hours, Feyre sat on her bed, conjuring various forms of magic to keep her company while she sorted through her feelings. Tiny yellow birds chirped in her ear as she considered all of the times she’d dismissed Rhys’s flirting as nothing more than another way to get on her nerves. Delicate orange butterflies danced around her as she remembered every pulse of feeling, every quickened heartbeat, every unbidden blush she’d felt when she was around him, all of which she’d ignored time and again. Feyre transfigured her favourite quill into a white mouse as she cursed herself for not understanding the scent of the Amortentia immediately. As it occurred to her just how hard she’d been falling, and how stubborn she’d been for not acknowledging it sooner. 

And at last, a silvery wisp of smoke burst out of the end of her wand. The shapeless mass of white vapour quickly took form; and within moments, a Thestral foal stood before her, peering at her expectantly. 

“Go…” she choked. “Go find Rhys. Tell him to meet me in the common room tonight at ten. Please,” she added, petting her Patronus’s skeletal head before he galloped off to complete his task. Though he’d only been there for a moment, she already missed the animal, even if it was only a corporeal charm. Loneliness, she thought, was the most exquisite kind of torture. 

 

* * *

 

A strangled laugh rasped out of her when, a few short minutes later, a blindingly white phoenix appeared before her. The bird only nodded her head once before vanishing in a cloud of glittering smoke, leaving Feyre to find something to do for another few hours. So she turned the extremely confused mouse back into a quill, and grabbed it and some parchment before heading to the common room. _At least I know I’ll get a good grade on my Amortentia essay,_ she thought wryly.

With a huff, she sat down on the same couch she’d fallen asleep on earlier that week and absently pointed her wand at one of the horribly ugly (in her opinion) pillows. A flash of dark green, and it transformed into a muggle lap desk. She dragged it towards her, intent on starting her work, but right before her quill touched the parchment, she realized she’d forgotten her ink. Barely tamping down a growl, she set her work aside and was about to stand up when—

“You’re early, Feyre darling. Were you that eager to see me? Although, I suppose a week without my presence is enough time for you to start experiencing withdrawal.” When she located the source of his voice, she turned to look at him. His lips were quirked into a smirk, but there was a bite behind his words. With a flick of her wand and a murmured spell, she cast her writing equipment back into her dormitory, where they’d be waiting for her on her desk when she returned. Taking this as his cue, Rhys sat down beside her, the cushion dipping beneath his weight. 

“I’m… I’m sorry for avoiding you all week.” She forced herself to keep eye contact, even though she wanted nothing more than to sink into the upholstery and disappear. 

With a benevolent nod and a widening smirk, he said, “Apology accepted.” But at the same time, he inquired, mind-to-mind, _Would you care to tell me why? Did I do something?_ The way he asked was less demanding than she’d anticipated, but the hurt in his voice made it infinitely more painful, and made her guilt much, much worse. 

_Honesty._ This was a conversation that she could no longer avoid, and she owed it to him—and to herself—to be as straightforward as she could. It didn’t make speaking any easier, however. “I was…” She cleared her throat, trying to swallow the large lump that had formed. “I needed to…” 

But it was impossible, and she found herself at a complete loss for words, despite how many things she needed to say. 

Instead, she looked right into his eyes, into the depthless, swirling, silver-flecked violet, and opened her mind to him. _This is the only way I know how to tell you._ She seldom knew if her messages reached him when she tried to converse with him mentally; but she had no doubt that he’d heard her this time when she felt the unpleasant swooping sensation that preceded a Legilimens entering her mind. 

 

~<O>~

 

_“Its scent is different for everyone, according to what attracts them.”_

_“Miss Archeron. Since you were the one to correctly answer my question, why don’t you do the honours? Come up here, tell us what the potion smells like for you.”_

She showed Rhys the cauldron, the way the potion shone like liquid gold, the way it had felt when she breathed it in. The confusing combination of scents: citrus, sea salt, rain, jasmine.

_“Would you perhaps like to inform me as to why you lied bold-faced to an unsuspecting group of students this evening?”_

_“I didn’t know you were a romantic.”_

_“On the contrary, my darling Feyre.”_

The way she’d felt when she’d woken up with his blanket carefully arranged over her sleeping form. The way he had looked in his elegant amusement as he sat next to the flickering hearth.

Her dream. 

_“It’s jasmine, Feyre darling.”_

Waking up clinging for dear life to a blanket that wasn’t hers, and the chilling, bone-deep fear accompanying the realization that had followed. 

 

~<O>~

 

With a shudder, Rhys pulled out of her mind. When she recovered her senses, she looked up at him to find that he was gaping at her, his normally golden skin ghostly pale. 

“I… I don’t understand,” he stammered, and it was so at odds with his normally unbreakable composure that it threw Feyre completely off. Mor was obviously wrong, and now she’d ruined what had been the best, most cherished friendship that she had ever had. Tears pricked her eyes, equal parts embarrassment and mourning for the friend she had no doubt lost in her rash decision to admit these obviously unreciprocated feelings. She was suddenly inexplicably angry at the school for its regulations regarding Apparition, because she would have sold her soul in that moment for the chance to get herself far, far away from this mess. 

“Feyre,” he said, more calmly, though there was still a tremor in his deep voice, “why didn’t you tell me?” A stupid question, and he knew it, but an admission of vulnerability that he knew she needed if he was going to convince her not to run away. Again. 

“I…” she began, sniffling and hating the single tear that rolled down her face, “I didn’t understand it, at first. Then, when I did, I was so confused and I was in denial and… and then I was terrified that you didn’t feel the same way. And I managed to convince myself that it was for the best that you didn’t know; it would have been unfair—it _is_ unfair of me to shove this on you, to take advantage of you like this.” Tears were falling freely now, and she made no move to dry them. 

But a warm, gentle hand reached up and swept them away one by one, then offered her a handkerchief, likely magicked into existence. It smelled faintly of citrus, and the fragrant, heart-aching scent made her cry even harder.

“How could you think,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “that I didn’t feel the same way?” He took her hand in his. “There has not been a moment since I met you, Feyre, that I wasn’t in love with you. I told myself, in first year, that I was too young to know what love was—what it meant. But it’s been five years, and my feelings have not changed.” All of those years of flirtation, playful jabs, incomprehensible feelings, and they’d both missed it. Missed _all_ of it. 

Speaking felt impossible after Rhysand’s admission, but Feyre tried anyway. “I… I think I was denying it for so long that… I think it took something real and tangible and undeniable for me to understand it, to face it.” And she could see it now. Looking back, all of the subtle cues and physical responses made sense, and she felt like an idiot for not seeing it before. _No,_ she realized. _For seeing it, and ignoring it._

_“I’m sorry to inform you that you are the second last person in this school to realize that, my dear.”_

_“You don’t need Amortentia to see that you two have been falling for each other since you were both sorted.”_

They’d both been idiots, and they’d wasted six years dancing around each other, refusing to see what was right in front of them. 

“Well then,” Rhys cut in, having heard every thought that had just passed through her battered mind. “Let’s not waste another second.” It only took a moment, one single look of confirmation before they closed the space between them and their lips met. And it was the answer to every question that Feyre had been too terrified to ask. It was gentle and demanding, and he tasted every bit like the potion she had not been able to purge from her senses all week. It was more euphoric than any love potion could ever be, and infinitely more pure and real. 

Feyre’s hand threaded through his soft, night-dark hair as the kiss deepened, and Rhys’s broad hand found her waist, its warmth easily seeping through the silk of her pyjamas. She never wanted him to let go again. His lips were soft, and they moved naturally with hers until they could no longer breathe and they were forced to break apart. 

Neither of them went very far, and Feyre’s head fell onto Rhys’s shoulder as his arms encircled her, pulling her as close as their bodies would allow. She nuzzled into his neck and murmured onto his skin, “Why haven’t we done that before?” His low, soft laugh rumbled through her entire body and he pulled her closer, lying them both down on the couch. 

It was too short to accommodate Rhys’s full height, so Feyre extracted her wand and cast a quiet, “Engorgio,” expanding the couch to comfortably fit two. 

“I didn’t know you were so good with wands, Feyre darling,” he said, and she loved the way his voice sounded with her ear pressed to his chest. “Maybe you could teach me a few tricks.” And just like that, his characteristic teasing was back. She swatted him gently, and he caught her hand, kissing the back of it before laying it on his chest, right above his heart. She could feel it beating as rapidly as her own, and her hand tingled where his lips had just been. 

Tilting her head up, she gazed into those starlit, violet eyes that she’d come to find comfort in, that she’d seek when she needed reassurance, courage. He met hers, and the affection that glowed in his eyes was not novel, she realized. She’d seen it before, and refused to recognize it for what it was. The thought alone brought with it another wave of sadness.

“Hush, no more of those thoughts. I think we’ve had enough of them for one night.” Startling her slightly, that same blue blanket materialized midair and drifted down over the two of them. Feyre hadn’t even seen him take out his wand. 

It went without saying that neither of them had any intention of returning to their dormitories that evening, so Feyre let her eyes slip shut as she relaxed into Rhys’s embrace, listening to the steady sound of his breathing as his chest rose and fell beneath her head. And with a reverence that she had not yet heard, he breathed, “Goodnight, Feyre darling.” 

“Goodnight, Rhysand.” And soft, jasmine-scented darkness swept her away.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, the common room flooded with students all talking in hushed voices as they took in the pair of them, still wrapped in each others’ arms. If they had been awake to see it, they would have witnessed the unmistakeable flash of gold and silver and bronze as the prescient students collected their winnings. 

And if they had been awake to see it, they would have seen Mor, who was steadily becoming the richest person in the room, whisper a smug, “I called it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! This title was inspired by the name of the love potion, because Amor is Latin for "love", and Tentia is Latin for "held". I hope you liked it - let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr :)


	7. Just a Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know how it ends. A love potion, an epiphany, and a happily ever after. But their story didn't begin with a realization. It began with a reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is in the same storyline as the chapter preceding it, and it won't make much sense if you haven't read it (well, it might, but it'll be less fun). As always, I hope you enjoy :)

**** Rhys had been visiting the mirror for years. He had no idea what kind of magic it possessed, nor how it had always known exactly what he wanted to see, but he had always found comfort in it. 

The first time he’d stumbled upon it was in his first year. At eleven, he didn’t have much control over his thirst for adventure, for mischief, and that was how he found himself prowling the corridors of the castle in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t be the last time that he’d roll out of bed and go exploring—not by a long stretch—but that first night was by far the most important. And it is where this story begins. 

Then, he hadn’t been as adept at avoiding the caretaker’s watchful eye, and that night, he had been very close to getting caught. He’d needed somewhere to hide, and the moment the desperate thought had formed, a door had appeared. Or maybe it had always been there—Rhys couldn’t be sure. Nearly completely obscured by a tapestry of a regal woman standing over a black cauldron, the door had opened for him before he’d even laid a hand on it, and he’d slipped inside, youthful and unquestioning. 

Inside was a small, circular room, unadorned but for a large, ancient mirror standing in the middle of the space. It stood on clawed feet, and inscribed at the top of its golden frame was a phrase in a language he did not recognize. 

As one is wont to do when faced with a new, mysterious object, Rhys approached it. Slowly, carefully, as if it might attack him or come towards him on clawed, golden feet—in his eleven years as a wizard, he’d seen stranger. But it didn’t attack, didn’t so much as budge when he came to stand before it. His eyes widened. 

He was looking at himself, his black hair tousled from fitful sleep and his green, silk pyjamas hanging slightly too large on his small frame. But he was also staring into a pair of unforgettable blue-grey eyes. The girl’s face, usually contorted in righteous annoyance at him, had softened, an adoring smile curving her lips. The ice in her eyes had melted, and they looked at him with kindness, with… love. She, too, was clad in her Slytherin pyjamas, and her small, bare feet poked out from under the long pants. 

He knew it wasn’t real, even before he swivelled his head to the side to check if she was really there. The mirror was playing a cruel trick on him. 

But still, he found himself sitting in front of it for a little while longer, counting her freckles like stars in the night sky—now that she wasn’t chastising him for staring—and wondering what it would take to get the girl he knew to smile like the one before him. 

When he was sure that the caretaker was no longer anywhere in the vicinity, he snuck back into the hallway and navigated his way back to the Slytherin dungeon, apologizing to the irritated woman in the painting when he woke her to get inside. 

When he crawled back into bed and closed his eyes, the blue-eyed girl’s smile was the last thing he thought of before sleep overcame him.

 

* * *

 

Rhysand supposed that he had the mirror to thank for many things. For instance, he never would have taken the initiative to learn so many spells for stealth and diversion if he hadn’t known about the hidden room. 

Indeed, rest did not always come easy to him—it never had—and the secret, private space, which always seemed to be there when he needed it, provided a refuge for him when he was just too tired to fall asleep. 

He never saw that mysterious tapestry again, however. The door never appeared in the same place twice. 

Rhysand had heard myths about an elusive, secret room at Hogwarts that revealed itself when a person had true need of it. Few students believed the stories, but he did. He’d been there. 

As time went by, he and the girl with golden hair became better and better friends. And the first time he’d seen her smile for him, as broad and unrestrained as the ones he’d seen in the mirror on countless lonely nights, his heart had stopped. He’d never been one to lose his composure, but her radiant smile had been one of the most incredible things he’d ever seen in his time at Hogwarts. 

After that, he’d stopped visiting the mirror. He had no further need of it now that its visions matched his reality. So it lay forgotten for three years, collecting dust while his life started more closely resembling the one he’d seen in the silver glass.

The next time he returned was in his fifth year. A love potion gone awry, and the girl he’d come to care for was acting like he didn’t exist. Was acting like she didn’t want him to exist in her space. 

Rhysand hadn’t known if the room would still be there—if it still remembered a lonely, eleven-year-old boy who’d needed a friend. But after roaming the cold, dark halls for a few minutes, he turned another moonlit corner and came face-to-face with a familiar woman, a serene smile on her face as she presided over a huge, black cauldron. 

The tapestry rustled, as if by a brisk wind, and a door appeared behind the woven fabric just as it had that first day. Rhys nearly shuddered with relief. 

Upon entering, he found the room just as he’d left it. The mirror stood tall and proud in the centre, no more dust on it than the last time he’d been here. Breathing deeply, he strode towards it again, no longer afraid that it would hurt him. He already knew that it would. 

And seeing her again, taller than the last time she’d gazed at him from the reflective surface, with that smile that he had come to cherish, to love… it was like a dagger through the heart. 

He’d made a promise to her when she’d confronted him about being a Legilimens that he would never invade her mind without her knowledge. So he had no inkling as to why she could no longer stand to be around him. All he knew was that he already missed her. And it was agony of the acutest kind to be standing before her when she wasn’t there. 

But still, he sat. For minutes or hours, he didn’t know or care. Just to see that smile that he’d been deprived of for too many days. 

Only when he was stiff and sore in places other than his heart did he uncurl to his feet, looking in the mirror one last time and bidding his friend goodbye. He didn’t know for how long. 

But before he stepped out of the frame, her stormy blue eyes pierced his, and she leaned up on her bare toes to kiss him, cupping his cheek with a cold hand. He staggered back. He’d felt it, her hand touching his face, her soft lips pressing against his. But it was wrong. She wasn’t there. 

His heart was already broken, fractured and hurting and perhaps irreparable. But when he looked at her one more time, her golden-brown hair framing her beautiful face—when he saw her mouth three words that there was no hope of him ever hearing from those lips—his heart cleaved in two. 

He turned and ran from the room.

 

* * *

 

The first time Rhysand heard her speak those three impossible words, he’d known. He’d known that, if he were to look in that mirror again, he would no longer see anything worth coveting. He had everything he could possibly want, and her lips were so much warmer than the ones he’d felt in a cramped room on a lonely night. 

 

* * *

 

Several years and several very real kisses later, Feyre and Rhysand were married, and both were professors at the beloved school of their youth. 

Naturally, Feyre became the best Potions Master the school had ever seen, and woe be to any student who tried to back-talk her when she was waxing poetic about Felix Felicis or Veritaserum or Amortentia. 

And Rhysand, to everyone’s great surprise, became the most prolific Muggle Studies professor Hogwarts had ever employed. Because no matter how many times his wife told him stories about the intricacies of muggle life, there would always be more to learn. Even this many years later, he was nothing more than a mischievous boy with tousled hair and insatiable curiosity. 

They were legends now, just as they were then. Every witch and wizard at Hogwarts knew the story of the two love-struck Slytherins, who grew up to become their captivating, terrifying Muggle Studies professor, and their brilliant Potions Master who was—without a doubt—much, much scarier. As such, they were ubiquitously well-loved by both staff and students. 

And there was something peculiar about the way they looked at each other—as if they were having silent conversations, communicating without uttering a word. There were rumours, of course—ridiculous claims that Rhysand was a  _Legilimens,_ of all things. But they were unsubstantiated. 

They still got on each other’s nerves, which was fantastic entertainment for the students. But it was pointless to refute that they were completely, profoundly, irrevocably in love. 

When they were a year into their careers, there remained one thing that Rhysand hadn’t yet had the chance to do. Something that he needed to do. So, a Confundus charm and a few choice swear words later, he was leading a dazed Feyre down the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, only the occasional shaft of moonlight illuminating their path. Rhys hoped he knew where he was going after all of these years.

He repeated the familiar mantra in his head for the very last time. _I need somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I can be alone._ He wanted to laugh at the irony of it; the mirror had, once, kept him company during several sleepless nights, and it had also been the source of the worst loneliness Rhysand had ever felt. 

Before the words had faded from his mind, the wall beside them shuddered, and a door emerged from the stones. He pulled a gaping Feyre inside. But he didn’t say anything to her when they stepped through the entrance, the door shutting and vanishing behind them. 

Inside was the same small, circular room, unadorned but for that large, ancient mirror standing in the middle of the space. It stood on clawed feet, and inscribed at the top of its golden frame was a phrase in a language Rhys still did not recognize, despite copious amounts of research on his part. 

As one is wont to do when faced with a new, mysterious object, Feyre approached it, in much the same way Rhysand himself had done five years ago. Slowly, carefully, as if it might attack her or come towards her on clawed, golden feet. Rhys smiled—he already knew that it wouldn’t. Alas, it didn’t attack, didn’t so much as budge when she came to stand before it. Rhys swallowed.

“What do you see?” he asked nervously.

Feyre was quiet for a moment, furrowing her brow at her reflection, at whatever she saw within it. Then she reiterated, “What do I see?” She lifted an arched brow. “It’s a mirror, you idiot. I see myself.” She rolled her eyes affectionately, giving a slight shake of her head as she examined herself in the glass, her silky, dark-gold hair swishing behind her. 

His heart swelled in his chest. Rhysand observed her in silence as she preened, as her perceptive eyes found the mysterious inscription, and he could see her gifted mind at work as she tried to puzzle it out. But she gave up after a minute, her quizzical expression fading back into neutrality.

When he deemed it safe, he crept up behind her, managing to not draw her attention despite the fact that she was in front of a mirror. “I think you look better with me, wouldn’t you agree?” he whispered in her ear. She jumped, and he chuckled when she gently punched his shoulder. _That never gets old._

Finally, he stepped into the space beside her, the reflection in the mirror so similar to the one he’d become keenly familiar with in his younger days. And yet, not the same at all. How he could _ever_ have mistaken the imposter behind the glass for the living, breathing, exquisite woman next to him was a mystery. 

And when Feyre moved aside, leaving only Rhys before it, tears pricked his eyes. He had been right. 

Because, at last, the mirror was just a mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Let me know what you thought, and come find me on Tumblr.


	8. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following prompt: "As part of an installation you’re doing, you stand in the main hall dressed in white from head to toe with a sign inviting people to draw on you, so I leave my number on your back and you actually call."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while since I posted a one-shot! This has been collecting digital dust for some time now, so I hope you enjoy!

“That’s it for tonight, I’m afraid. Any questions before I let you go?” 

_Not likely,_ I thought wryly. When our professor ended his classes no earlier than ten o’clock at night, he could hardly expect anyone to be lucid enough by the time he was finished lecturing to formulate proper questions, let alone voice them. As it was, most of the students in the hall looked halfway asleep already, stifling yawns with varying degrees of success while they stared blankly at our rambling professor. Snapping my notebook shut, I began quietly packing up my things, trying not to disturb the guy seated at the desk to my right, who was sleeping peacefully on his open notebook, a small puddle of drool blurring his meticulous notes. Suppressing a sympathetic laugh—I’d been there, too—I shrugged on my coat and finished zipping up my bag, embarrassingly eager to escape this overcrowded hall. But before I was out of my seat, a hand shot up at the front of the hall, a few rows before me, taking both the teacher and the rest of the class by surprise. I bit back a groan and settled back down. 

“Yes?”

The man stood up, and instead of addressing his query to the teacher, he turned to face the sea of somnolent students. Immediately, I recognised his face—I had the great misfortune of sharing the majority of my classes with the man; and a week hadn’t yet gone by since the beginning of the semester where he hadn’t taken it upon himself to provoke some heated discussion or other with an unsuspecting student, a willing teacher, or, occasionally, me during a class. For who knew what reason, he seemed to favour the latter—especially when the subject was just this side of controversial; he never quite played the devil’s advocate, but he appeared to take great pleasure in riling me up, even if we both ended up sharing the same opinion. It seemed as though he was completely incapable of keeping his mouth shut. 

Somehow, he managed to find my face among the hundreds of other antsy, exhausted students, and gave me a devil’s smile before opening his mouth.

“I just wanted to inform you all,” he began, not taking his eyes off of me, “that there will be an exhibition tomorrow in the main foyer of the Arts Building. I won’t share any details, but it’ll be going on all day, so I encourage you to go see it for yourselves if you get the chance.” 

I stared at him in shock. _How did he…_ It was _supposed_ to have been a secret, but the wink he shot at me at the end of his speech made it clear that he had, indeed, been referring to my exhibition. How he’d found out about it was beyond me, given that Mor and I hadn’t so much as breathed a word about to anyone it for months, but given that he seemed to be every teacher’s favourite student, I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the board members had let it slip by mistake. I glared at him, but his smile only widened, as if he truly thought he’d done me a favour when he’d obviously done the opposite. 

I stormed out of the class, the teacher’s perfunctory, “Thank you, Rhysand,” following me on my way out, and I dialled Mor’s number as I finally escaped the stifling heat of the Arts Building. The crisp autumn air cooled my near-feverish skin, though it did little to cool my temper. 

Mor, unsurprisingly, was unruffled when I relayed the situation to her, reassuring me that my rage was entirely unnecessary and perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing that more people knew about my project. My arguments about it being less organic and losing the element of spontaneity fell on deaf ears; she just continued to insist that my ire had nothing whatsoever to do with my project and everything to do with that enraging man getting under my skin once again. I didn’t tell her that she was at least partially right—if not wholly—or that it may indeed have been beneficial to make people aware of the exhibition, lest it fail due to lack of participants. 

I half-listened to her largely faultless reasoning as I made my way home, trying not to trip as I focused not on where I was going, but on the copper and gold-gilded leaves, the lamplit cobblestones, and the starry sky.

In truth, I didn’t really mind having class this late, as difficult as it was to focus in a hall full of yawning students, trying to absorb a subject that wasn’t the least bit riveting. The calm, solitary walk home that followed was worth it—the subtle, vulnerable sounds of the city falling asleep a worthwhile reward after listening to three hours of our professor’s monotonous drone. The city was dormant at this hour, daytime cacophony having died down to a quiet murmur as shops closed and their occupants went home. The cold night air made me feel awake as I meandered through the empty streets, stinging my cheeks and biting insistently at my bare hands.

It should have made me feel lonely, the utter stillness and silence of this solitude. But the journey was revitalising, and when I reached my apartment, my irritation towards the vexing man from class had dulled around the edges. I almost forgot about him as I prepared for the following day, setting out my clothes and stuffing my bag with all of the necessary supplies. While I was getting everything in order, rain began to fall, tapping at my window like pebbles thrown from below. And when I at last got into bed and my eyes slid shut, the rain increasing in volume from a quiet patter to a rushing deluge, it was much easier to convince myself that he was on my mind no more.

 

* * *

 

“Nice job with the poster, Mor!” I shouted as I narrowly dodged another mud puddle—an unfortunate product of yesterday’s overnight downpour—and crossed the threshold into the Arts Building. Walking to school that morning had been about as pleasant as navigating a wet, muddy obstacle course, and it hadn’t been long into the hazardous journey before I’d begun to sorely regret snubbing Mor’s offer to give me a ride. The extra hour of sleep hadn’t been worth it. 

Mor unfurled from her cross-legged position on the floor and grinned at me, brandishing a thick black marker in one hand. A veritable rainbow of coloured markers were scattered across the floor beside her, and she deftly stepped around them as she jogged towards me. The first rays of morning sunshine shone through the building’s high windows and lit up her wavy golden hair, casting a faint halo around her head. Even this early in the day, Mor was a vision, radiant and glowing in the dewy light even dressed as casually as she was, her hands stuffed in the pockets of baggy sweatpants, looking unfairly comfortable in her girlfriend’s oversized sweater.

Before she said a word to me in response or in greeting, Mor grabbed me firmly by the shoulders and scanned my body from head to toe, no doubt searching for any errant flecks of mud that might have found their way onto on my white outfit. In hindsight, I doubt I could have chosen a worse day to walk to school.

But, after a thorough examination, it appeared that nothing was amiss.

“Next time, do us both a favour and take the bus,” she implored, casting her eyes heavenward. To have let months of meticulous planning go to waste over a careless splash of mud would have been unforgivable.

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes flicking to the small, round rug in the centre of the foyer. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget to feed you.”

I arched a brow, though my voice held no threat when I warned her, “You’d better not.”

As an arts student, I understandably spent most of my time sitting behind a canvas, wielding a paintbrush. The point of this exhibition was to turn the tables—today, I’d be the canvas, inviting passersby to take on my role as the artist and deface my as-yet unmarred clothing as they saw fit. Given my inability to move, I’d given Mor the responsibility of ensuring that I didn’t go hungry—which, I considered, may not have been the best idea.

But I was far too excited to let thoughts of future hunger worry me. I had been waiting for months in order to get permission from the faculty to go through with this project. Now that the day had finally come, I was nearly buzzing with anticipation. Never had I so eagerly awaited the beginning of a school day. 

For the duration of the exhibition, Mor would be loitering nearby, taking pictures for her photography course and filming the entire transformation. Not only would this would give her plenty of material for her own portfolio—it also provided me with a way to remember the project once it was over. And I could think of no one better for it—Mor’s skill with a camera was unparalleled.

Although I’d done an admirable job keeping my outfit pristine on my way to school, my shoes had not been spared from damage. Carefully, I shucked them off, stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag I’d brought in anticipation of that eventuality, and padded barefoot onto the white rug. The carpet, I reflected as I curled my toes into the soft, plush material, had been a very wise choice—it would certainly be a better alternative to standing on the hard, unyielding floor for several hours. 

Once I was in position, Mor began adjusting her large, handmade poster, turning it so that it stood right beside me, clearly visible to anyone entering the building through the front door. Craning my neck to get a better look, I took a moment to admire Mor’s handiwork, grinning as I read the message we’d both decided on after much deliberation:

_I’m standing for anyone who thinks that they don’t have what it takes to be an artist. Draw on me to prove them wrong. Art is for everyone._

Mor had insisted on making the sign herself, not-so-subtly pointing out that my handwriting was somewhat unsightly. Despite the jab, I was grateful that she’d taken on the responsibility, because her script was beautiful—all elegant loops and curves and long, sweeping strokes. It was a work of art in and of itself. 

“It’s gorgeous, Mor. Thank you,” I exclaimed, beaming at her. 

Her reply was delayed, her attention wholly focused on her job as she tweaked the sign’s position again. And again. I chuckled. 

“It was nothing, really. I’m glad I could help,” came her response a few moments later, nonchalant in her acceptance of praise, as usual. Not to be distracted by idle chatter, she handed me the marker she’d been clutching and went to retrieve the rest, putting another one in my empty hand. Those remaining were arranged at my feet, within easy reach of anyone wishing to take a turn drawing on me, and I really hoped they would be put to good use. My worst fear had been that no one would be interested in participating—that, for all of our anticipation and preparation, I’d have nothing to show for it at the end of the day. But, as Mor had frequently assured me, it seemed highly unlikely, especially given how busy the building usually was (not to mention my infuriating classmate’s unasked-for advertisement in yesterday’s lecture). So I forced the worrisome thought from my mind.

Before she stood from her crouched position, Mor picked up a red marker and looked up at me, cocking her head. “Shall I do the honours?” she asked, wiggling the marker before her and tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. 

I laughed. “Sure. You’ve earned it.” Apparently needing no further encouragement, Mor shifted to sit fully on the ground, at eye level with my knees. With a flourish, she pulled off the cap and began drawing on my ankle, her forehead creased in concentration. While she doodled, I scanned the room, making sure no one had come into the foyer when we weren’t paying attention. But if the vast, echoing quiet was any indication, the building seemed to be empty, for the time being. 

After a few moments, Mor gave a pleased little huff, tilting her head and squinting at her work as if to gauge its quality. Apparently satisfied, she replaced the marker on the rug and uncoiled to her feet, a proud smile on her face. 

When I dared to look down at her artwork, I couldn’t suppress a snort. Standing tall on the lower half of my leg were two stick-figures: one sporting an impressive amount of wild, curly hair, the other holding an overlarge paintbrush in her hand. 

“It looks just like us,” I remarked, grinning at Mor’s doodle. 

“I know,” she said simply. “I should have been an arts major, don’t you think?” She laughed at her own joke, admiring her artwork anew and wrinkling her nose; but Mor was an expert photographer, and many of her photos put even my best paintings to shame. She definitely wasn’t lacking in artistic skill—that much was certain. 

At the sound of a door creaking open somewhere in the building, both Mor and I glanced at each other, exchanging a last look that conveyed a single, exhilarating word: _Showtime._

Finally, Mor produced a wide, white ribbon from her pocket, twirling it in the air a few times before tying it securely around my eyes. The blindfold had been her idea. She’d pointed out that being watched while drawing was fairly anxiety-provoking, even for seasoned artists, so it might be more enticing to strangers if they didn’t have to endure being stared at while they were drawing. And this way, I would be the last person to see the finished product. There was something oddly intriguing about the idea—that I was, essentially, completely detached from the art that was being created. I was only the medium.

With a final, “Good luck!” and a kiss on the cheek, Mor left to sit on a bench across the room, where she’d be observing me from a distance as students and faculty were invited to be artists for a day. 

The first time someone approached me, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt the tip of a marker make contact with my clothed shoulder. But I’d laughed it off, and whoever the artist had been had just chuckled with me and continued to draw. After that, I eased into a rhythm, listening for the sound of footsteps coming closer and no longer startling when a marker was plucked from my hand or pressed against my body. 

Traffic was slow at first, since most students wisely avoided enrolling in early morning classes; but after an hour or so, the odd sensation of being drawn on was no longer foreign. 

A few people chatted with me while I stood there, asking me what the project was for, and I explained to them how I’d been motivated, in a sense, by the sheer number of cynics who had taken it upon themselves to assure me that I’d never make it as an artist—how their lack of faith had only made me more determined to prove them all wrong. Occasionally, stubbornness and perseverance went hand-in-hand. Some people told me what they’d drawn, while others came and left without comment; and every time someone left me ignorant of their contribution, I made a game out of silently trying to guess what it was. 

After some time, I heard someone approach me from behind and lean in close to my ear. 

“How’s my human canvas doing?” Mor asked a little bit too loudly to be completely innocuous. But I supposed that the deprivation of one of my senses must have marginally sharpened the rest of them, so her attempt to startle me proved to be unsuccessful.

Not waiting for an answer, she plucked the marker from one of my hands and replaced it with a granola bar, already unwrapped for me. I gave her a grateful smile and tucked in, not having realised just how hungry I’d been seeing as I had no real way of knowing how long I’d been standing here.

When I’d polished it off, followed by another one, I answered, “Everything’s going great, as far as I can tell. Is there any room left on me?” Regardless, I’d prepared for the possibility that I’d attract more people than my outfit had space for: in case there really was no part of me left untouched, I’d brought a second set of white clothes. 

After a few moments of silent scrutiny, she replied, “There’s still plenty of room. It should last you for the rest of the day, I think. And from what I can tell, people are being considerate—nothing obnoxious or vulgar.” I laughed nervously—the idea of presenting the jury with clothing covered in doodles of… it didn’t warrant thinking about. 

Before Mor returned to her seat, she took a marker to my chest and drew what she later informed me was a heart. “Right above _your_ heart,” she’d added in a syrupy, saccharine voice, and I cringed, shooing her away. 

And so the day went. I was enormously pleased with the number of people who participated, and I really hoped Mor was getting some good pictures for her own portfolio. 

It was not long after Mor’s departure that someone finally succeeded in startling me. I didn’t hear their approach at all, and only realised that they were, in fact, there when my vision suddenly went dark, the sunlight filtering through my blindfold abruptly choked off. I tensed, and the stranger chuckled. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” they said. _He,_ if the deep timbre of his voice was any indication. I offered a noncommittal response, feeling an embarrassed flush rise high in my cheeks; and a moment later, as if he’d waited for me to recover from my brief moment of fright, I felt a marker being pressed gently against my blindfold. He was careful, not pushing down too hard or moving too quickly, and when he was finished, I couldn’t stifle my laughter. 

A pair of eyes, drawn in vibrant purple, were sketched over where my own were covered. They didn’t appear to be human—rather, they were feline, with slitted pupils and sharp, curved edges. I hadn’t given much thought to the ribbon—whether or not it would remain untouched, that was—and I wondered how I’d look now that unblinking violet eyes were perpetually watching people work. The effect would likely be quite unsettling.

“There,” said the artist. “Now you can see all the people you’ve inspired.” Despite the ribbon obscuring my vision, I could hear the smile in his voice, and I returned it. 

“If only that were the case,” I lamented, shaking my head and loosing a theatrical sigh. “I should have invested in a magic marker.” 

“Ah, but the magic doesn’t come from the marker, does it? It all depends on who wields it,” he philosophised, and I swore I could hear him wink. 

“Does that make you a magician, then?” I teased, giving him what I hoped was a coy smile. I wasn’t sure why I was flirting with him (or was I just flirting back?), but found that it was much easier when I couldn’t see him, or his reaction. 

His voice dropped to a low, sultry purr as he replied smoothly, “Not with a pen, darling. But in other ways, most definitely.” I rolled my eyes, resolutely ignoring the heat flooding my cheeks. 

“Oh, so arrogance is a superpower now?” 

He clicked his tongue. “Do you talk to all of your fellow artists this way? Or only the devilishly handsome ones?”

I tried to give him an incredulous look, hoping it wasn’t made less effective by the blindfold (and knowing that it was). “You realise I can’t see you, right?”

“I’m aware,” he countered, “but I’m sure you know it to be true, darling. Why else would you be so flustered?” 

“I am not flustered,” I scoffed, though my face was still warm from his earlier comment.

“If you say so. Your cheeks are a lovely shade of red, by the way.” I hated that they flushed darker in response, and even more when he laughed again—a low, intimate sound that caressed my skin as softly as the silk covering my eyes. 

And then he vanished. I didn’t hear him leave, and I couldn’t see him, but somehow, I’d known the moment he was gone. The air around me seemed to get… colder, all of a sudden. As if he’d been the source of the room’s warmth, and when he’d disappeared, he’d taken all of it with him. It was a thoroughly ridiculous notion, and I gave my head a good shake, trying with minimal success to rid myself of the thought. 

The rest of the day passed as it had begun. Many students still spoke to me while they took markers to my clothes, asking about the project and explaining what they’d added to it, but none of it was quite as intriguing as my conversation with the enigmatic stranger. 

Hours later, when sunlight no longer shone through my blindfold and the day’s relentless flood of people had slowed to a trickle, Mor snuck up behind me and grabbed my shoulders, properly frightening me this time. I yelped and reached back to swat her, but missed. Giggling, she untied the ribbon around my eyes and let it fall away. 

The world swam back into view. Night had fallen, the sky even darker than it had been when I’d walked here this morning, and I was _covered_ with drawings. Some were small—minimalistic doodles of hearts and flowers and simpler shapes. Others were more detailed—artwork that had taken time and patience. Some were done in colour, others in black. And though it was evident that some of the art students had lent their talents to the project, the majority of the drawings were clearly done by those who didn’t study art. I was ecstatic that so many people had taken the time to contribute, and I hoped that I’d inspired them all in some way. It was beautiful.

There was almost no space left on my shirt or leggings, but my blindfold was left bare save for the two eyes drawn by that man. They were impressively well-rendered, especially given that he hadn’t been drawing on a flat surface, and I absentmindedly wondered why they’d been drawn in purple, instead of black. I laughed again as I thought of how strange I must have looked to people going by. 

Stepping into view, Mor grinned and swept her gaze over me, taking in every inch of my body as if she wanted to examine each drawing one by one. 

“I’d call this a success, wouldn’t you?” Indeed, our project had turned out even better than I’d expected, and I sincerely hoped that it would impress the jury, too, when I presented it to them. 

The ribbon was soft and supple in my hands, and I stared at it for a long moment before presenting it to Mor and asking, “Did you see who drew these, by any chance?” I kept my expression casual, my tone neutral, as if my curiosity had all to do with the peculiar drawing and nothing whatsoever to do with the artist himself. 

But Mor must have seen him, must have witnessed our exchange. Because though _she_ tried to look innocent, she couldn’t mask the mischief sparkling in her chocolate-brown eyes. “I must have missed it. I left for a little while in the afternoon to get lunch, so it’s possible they escaped my notice. They’re nice, though—very peculiar. I wish I’d seen who it was. But I didn’t.” By the end of her rambling soliloquy, she was no longer trying to hide her amusement. She’d most definitely seen him. 

But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of looking too interested; so I quirked a brow at her and said, “Should we get going? I’ve still got some work I need to do, and I need to do a write-up.” She made a show of looking disappointed that I hadn’t pried any further, but she begrudgingly agreed, helping me roll up the small rug and collecting the markers before leading me to her car. 

During the drive home, I admired my clothes anew. I was gratified to find how little space there was left on the fabric. Mor promised to send me the pictures she’d taken once she’d selected the best ones, and before I stepped out of the car a few minutes later, she smiled deviously at me and whispered, “Check out the back of your shirt when you get inside.” The way she winked at me had me wondering if she’d lied earlier when she’d told me that people weren’t drawing inappropriate things on me. But before I had the chance to inquire further, she was backing out of the driveway, giving me a coy finger wave before speeding off. 

Taking care to avoid wet patches on the carpet and not going near the rusty railings, I climbed the eight flights of stairs to my floor and made haste to my apartment. I couldn’t wait to change out of these clothes, both to alleviate the stress of trying not to damage any of the artwork and to give myself the chance to take a proper look at all of the drawings. 

I unlocked my door, slipped inside, and made my way swiftly to my bedroom. It was with no small amount of relief that I at last pulled off the shirt and leggings, laying them flat on the bed and changing into a pair of flannel pyjamas, worn soft after several washes and even more wears.

The clothes were stark against my dark blue blanket, and I crawled onto the bed, crossing my legs and admiring the myriad drawings. As I’d noted before, they varied from minimalistic doodles to much more intricate designs, and the coloured markers that had been provided had clearly been put to good use. Much of the artwork was done in black, but even more of the fabric was vibrant with colour. 

Belatedly, I remembered Mor’s parting advice and flipped the shirt over, hoping I wouldn't find an unpleasant doodle of some sort staring back at me. 

At first, I didn’t see anything unusual—certainly nothing vulgar—and I wondered if Mor had been joking. But then, woven between several smaller drawings, I spotted a string of numbers. They were barely noticeable, and if I hadn’t been searching for something out of the ordinary, I might not have recognised them for what they were. _A phone number_. Any doubts I might have had as to whose it might have been vanished when I saw the words written beneath it in the same purple ink that stained my blindfold: _The Magician._  

For a moment, I wondered if I was imagining it. The message was so well hidden within the other designs on the shirt that it was a wonder that Mor had seen it from a distance. More to the point, I hadn’t noticed him draw on any other part of my body. I was torn between being annoyed that he’d used my art project as a device for flirtation, and being impressed that he’d managed to work it into the artwork so well that it didn’t at all appear to be what it was. To the untrained eye, it looked like nothing more than an artfully arranged set of numbers in purple ink and a few words in elegant handwriting. 

But I was too tired to make any decisions after being on my feet all day, so I folded the clothes carefully and arranged them in the box I’d reserved for them, placed carefully on my dresser. After a moment’s deliberation, I reopened it and saved the number in my phone. I decided that if I was going to call him at all—which I was still unsure of—it wouldn’t be tonight. I was too exhausted. So, without another glance at the box, I tumbled into bed and let sleep take me away. 

 

* * *

 

At least, I tried to. But I couldn’t get the clever design out of my mind, and the stranger’s sensual voice wove in and out of my thoughts like silk ribbon twirling through the air. I was infuriatingly curious. And sleep seemed to be conveniently evading me. 

My phone lay dormant on my bedside table, well within my reach, so it didn’t take much convincing after a sleepless hour to pick up my phone and dial the number, pushing myself into an upright position. 

I hesitated for only a moment, letting myself worry for all of a second before my finger twitched and hit the screen. The dial tone rang quietly through the peaceful silence of my room, and I put the phone on speaker, laying it in my lap and deciding that my arms were too tired after gripping markers all day to hold it to my ear. 

I didn’t have to wait long before a deep voice came through the phone. 

“Is this who I think it is?” asked the voice. It was laced with both interest and incredulity, and I was sure I could hear that same smirk that I’d known was there when he’d been standing before me earlier.

“That depends,” I replied. “Is this ‘The Magician?’” As I uttered those words, I couldn’t suppress a small smile, privately enjoying the absurdity of the situation. 

“It is,” he confirmed. Though his smooth voice was warped slightly as it filtered through the phone’s speakers, it had a peculiar effect on me, agitating butterflies in my stomach that I hadn’t realised were there. “What can I do for you, darling?”

_Good question,_ I thought, barely managing to swallow nervous laughter. “I was just curious as to why you decided to use my art project as a means to flirt with me,” I decided at last. My goal had been to sound indifferent, to appear unaffected by his clever trick. But what came through spoke more of curiosity and begrudging admiration—two feelings I hadn’t wished to reveal. I frowned. 

“I’m impressed that you found it,” he admitted. 

The unabashed arrogance in his voice irked me. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” I challenged.

“I said _impressed_ ,” he corrected, “not surprised. I had no doubt that you would.” 

“And you were sure that I’d call, were you?” As I uttered the words, I immediately regretted them, fully appreciating the ridiculousness of my statement. 

The tone of his voice conveyed the same knowledge. “You did, didn’t you? I’m not imagining this?” While that statement might have betrayed honest incredulity from anyone else, he simply sounded like he was stating the obvious. Which, I reluctantly admitted, he was. 

Even if this call ended up being nothing more than a battle of wits with a faceless stranger, I was still determined to win. 

“I’m just politely requesting that you refrain from using public art projects to court unsuspecting women in the future. As a favour to artists everywhere.” I heard a breathy sound crackle through the speaker—almost certainly a laugh. 

“Noted. And how would you prefer that I go about it, if not through the versatile and glorious medium that is art?” he asked in a tone that was not quite teasing. 

I furrowed my brow, then simpered, “I don’t know—perhaps asking nicely? When the aforementioned artist isn’t blindfolded?” I reddened, the words not having come out at all how I’d intended. I contemplated hanging up then and there.

“Sage advice, certainly,” he conceded, and silence stretched between us for a moment. _Was that it?_

But then he spoke again, as if he’d needed to take a moment to assemble his words before speaking once more. 

“Let me try again, then. If you were to, theoretically, disregard my previous attempt at flirting, would you be more inclined to grab a coffee with me at some point?” 

I blinked, my mouth moving before I’d even had the chance to mull over his question. 

“Theoretically, I suppose I could be persuaded.” I was shocked at myself, at my uncharacteristic boldness, but didn’t think to take the words back. If this was what it took to win whatever exchange we’d instigated, so be it. Worst case scenario, I’d waste an hour or two of my life drinking mediocre coffee and talking about nothing of interest. But maybe, I’d agreed to something a little more intriguing. 

 

* * *

 

When I woke the next morning, I could barely recall our midnight conversation, and it was only once I checked my phone’s history for evidence that this call had, indeed, occurred that I allowed myself to believe that it hadn’t been an elaborate dream. 

The rest of it came back to me fairly quickly following that. Hardly understanding how (or why) it had happened, I’d agreed to meet a complete stranger for coffee this afternoon. Impulsivity was not something I was known for, so I was still unsure as to how this had come about; but as Mor frequently pointed out, I was decidedly stubborn, so backing out wasn't an option, no matter how odd the situation was. Weirder things had happened. 

It was all I could think about all day, which proved to be rather irritating when I was trying to focus in my classes and couldn’t, instead trying to picture what this man looked like, based on nothing but the sound of his voice. Needless to say, it was an exercise in futility. 

So, after the longest figure drawing class of my life, I made my way back to the foyer of the Arts Building. We’d agreed to meet there today with the assurance that, “You’ll know me when you see me.” I wasn’t entirely convinced. 

When I arrived, waiting in the same place I’d stood yesterday, I started to feel a bit foolish. I scanned the crowd as herds of people milled about, caught up in conversations or rushing to other classes. But I saw no one standing still, no one looking similarly attentive and nervous. 

“Hello, darling.” 

Annoyed that I’d allowed myself to be startled again, I whirled around towards the sound of the familiar voice. And blinked a few times. 

Despite our frequent intellectual sparring matches, I’d never seen Rhysand this close before, and it was all I could do not to glare at him. Or gape. _You’ll know me when you see me._ He must have had a good laugh when he’d told me that. Of course I’d recognise his stupidly perfect face, having glared at it across studios and lecture halls countless times. Though, I’d never been this near to him—near enough to see the small dimple in his cheek from his infuriating smirk, near enough to hate him for his unfairly long lashes; and near enough to understand his colour choice for the eyes he’d drawn on my blindfold yesterday, because his own eyes were the same shade of perplexing violet, if not a thought or two darker. At the moment, they were lit up with mischief, and I was suddenly overcome with anger. And, though I didn’t want to admit it, disappointment. This had all been a joke to him.

“Very funny, Rhysand,” was all I could think to say, and I suffused it with as much venom as possible before turning on my heel and walking away. I had been foolish to think that this would be a good idea—agreeing to meet up with a stranger for no other reason than that he’d charmed me with honeyed words while I couldn’t read the truth in his expression. But the crowd was dense, and though I tried to fight my way through it, he caught up to me with ease. 

“Feyre,” he called, and though he had to shout over the din of the crowd, his voice still sounded soft. It gave me pause, and I reluctantly turned back. _One chance,_ I decided. I’d give him one chance to explain this, and wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt walking away afterwards.

Not sure I’d be able to find the right words to throw his way, I just lifted a brow and gave him a pointed look. _Get on with it, then._

“I wasn’t… I thought your exhibition yesterday was marvellous; and sure, I had a bit of fun teasing you, but that’s not new, is it?” When I gave him a thoroughly unimpressed glare, he went on. “I didn’t mean any of it as a joke, and I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, either, when I asked if you wanted to meet with me. If you don’t anymore, I understand, but if you do…” He gave me a smile that was, surely, meant to glow with self-assurance, but ended up just looking pitifully hopeful. 

Though I was utterly confused and still didn’t altogether believe him, his lopsided grin was decidedly disarming, and I found it surprisingly easy to say, “Alright, then. Don’t make me regret this.” 

My stomach flipped when his face lit up, his eyes dancing. “I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” 

He extended an arm, which I did not take, not trusting myself to go too near to him, let alone touch him. Arrogant or not, he was beautiful, and without having realised that I was doing it, I’d already envisioned several different ways I could paint him, all the while knowing that I’d never find a paintbrush fine enough to recreate the sharp lines of his face, or a black dark enough for his short, raven hair. And his eyes… I imagined countless hours trying to mix their exact shade of star-touched violet. 

Thankfully, he took the rejection with grace, extending the movement into a grand sweep of his hand towards the door, once again visible now that the crowd had thinned out some.

“Shall we? I know a great place off of Velaris Avenue—best hot chocolate in the city, I swear. And call me Rhys.”

I still wasn’t entirely sure that this was a good idea, nor was I certain how I’d gotten myself into this mess in the first place. But, curiosity, not for the first time, prevailed over caution, so I gave him a half smile and let him lead the way. 

 

* * *

 

A few minutes into our walk, the skies opened up, and rain began pouring down in sheets while a rainbow of umbrellas bloomed open all around us. I’d left mine back at my apartment, but before I had the chance to loose a growl, Rhys produced a black umbrella out of nowhere and opened it above us, forcing me to move a little bit closer if I didn’t want to get soaked. He certainly didn’t seem to mind, if his widening grin was any indication; and though I would never have admitted it, I didn’t mind terribly either, if only because he was unnaturally warm, and in this cold, wet weather, I’d take all the warmth I could get. 

The sheer amount of rain pounding down on the umbrella made it hard for us to hear each other, so we were mostly silent as we walked the rest of the way to the café. But it was a strangely comfortable silence, as if we both knew that the lack of conversation wasn’t for lack of mutual interest. Which I wasn’t—interested, that was. 

When we entered the café, depositing the abused, dripping umbrella by the door, I breathed a heartfelt, unabashed sigh of relief. Rhys laughed, though he looked similarly happy to be out of the storm. 

“You know,” he started, “I always thought I loved the rain, but days like these make me reconsider.” I chuckled, looking out towards the miserable downpour we’d escaped from and distantly pitying anyone still caught in it. 

“Rain is great as a concept,” I agreed. “Less so in reality. But I still kind of like the cold.”

Rhys looked genuinely curious as he asked, “Why?” 

“I don’t really know. I guess… maybe because it’s easier to warm yourself up than it is to cool yourself down,” I ventured. “And who doesn’t love sweaters and blankets?” 

“I do believe you’ve got a point there, Feyre darling.”

Without the usual academia-induced animosity, conversation flowed as freely as the rain outside the cafe as afternoon slid smoothly into evening, and we both drank more hot chocolate than anyone should ever consume at one time. I’d anticipated more awkwardness, more snark, but I was surprised by how much fun we had. We spent much more time at the coffee shop than I’d predicted, our conversation pointedly refusing to lull; it seemed as though every time a topic fizzled out, a new one materialised out of nowhere. Hesitant as I was to admit it, Rhys was a fantastic conversationalist—witty and charming and whip-smart. I couldn't remember the last time I’d engaged in a more interesting discussion with anyone other than Mor. 

And I found myself continually getting lost in his strange eyes, sometimes zoning out of the conversation completely for secret, stolen moments as I examined their shade of impossible, multifaceted violet.

Or, perhaps, not so secret.

“It’s alright,” he assured me after his third time repeating a question I still hadn’t heard. “My good looks take some getting used to.”

I regained my voice. “You seem to think awfully highly of yourself.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” he replied, amused and unfazed. “This is the first time we’ve spoken outside of our classes, and you’re already besotted with me.”

I scoffed, but couldn’t come up with a witty response that didn’t feel like lying. His smile turned feline. 

But I quickly introduced a new topic of conversation, hoping to avoid any more dangerous non-admissions, and we continued chatting as if our brief interlude had never happened.

To my surprise, once the stars were out and it was dark enough that we at last decided to go home, I had been the one to suggest a second… date, if that’s what this had been. And though he’d smirked and made made a predictably arrogant comment, he hadn’t hesitated to agree, and it had been evident that he was pleased. 

Despite it being several minutes out of his way, he’d insisted on walking me home afterwards, though he’d relented when I’d requested to pay for my own drinks. He hadn’t minded, either, when I’d accidentally stepped in a puddle and gotten mud all over his spotless black pants; he’d just splashed me back and called it even (though thankfully, I wasn’t wearing white this time, as he astutely pointed out after the fact). I couldn't remember the last time I’d smiled so much. 

As I made my way up the stairs after denying him a “goodnight kiss” (though I had let him give me a chaste peck on the cheek, which was still glowing an embarrassing shade of red), I contemplated how utterly strange this was. In my mind, I still couldn't reconcile the arrogant, outspoken man from my classes, who never hesitated to challenge professors or students with intelligent, controversial questions, with the witty, charming man I’d spent the better part of my day with, who was generous with both sarcastic remarks and clever compliments. Perhaps I’d always been intrigued by him, if only from a distance, but now… 

With no other explanation for what I’d witnessed today, I hypothesised that he must truly be a magician after all. For weeks, he’d been able to get under my skin without ever saying a word to me directly—only speaking to me in the form of well thought-out remarks disguised as lecture-related comments. In the space of a few minutes, he’d made me… _flustered,_ was the term he used, even when I was blindfolded and blissfully unaware of who he truly was. Without my knowledge, he’d hidden his phone number quite cleverly within my art project, so that only one who was truly looking for it could find it, and made me interested enough to find the courage to follow through and dial it. In only a few hours, he’d completely changed my perception of him, and he’d proved to be a genuinely interesting person to talk to. Now, when he spoke, the ire that usually lit me from the inside was replaced with something warmer, something that made me want to listen, despite the butterflies kicking up a fuss in my stomach every time he dropped an unexpected compliment on me. And when he’d kissed my cheek… 

My phone buzzed beside my head, startling me out of my nonsense theories. Several image attachments sat waiting for me, courtesy of Mor, as well as another cryptic message with too few details for my liking:

**Mor, 11:35pm:** I think you’ll like the last one ;) 

I winced, both curious about viewing the photo in question and dreading it. But I didn’t waste time, opening the attachments and flipping through the plethora of pictures. My face split into a grin as I looked from one to the next; they were incredible—stellar quality, taken from thoughtful angles, obvious attention to details… Mor never failed to astound me. 

When I reached the second-to-last picture—a zoomed-in shot of a dark hand drawing a rose on my wrist—I almost couldn’t bring myself to flip to the last one. But I shook my head, knowing how foolish that blind worry was. It was just a picture, after all. 

But it still sent a blush creeping into my cheeks when I saw what it really was: not a picture after all, but a video clip. Mor had caught the entire scene between me and Rhys, had captured every smile, every laugh, every embarrassed blush; and even without sound, I could hear our conversation in my mind as it had happened at the time. I watched my expression change when he finally walked away—something akin to disappointment flashing over my features for a fleeting moment. 

But I was surprised to see that he hadn’t, in fact, gone away. He’d simply circled me, waited a few moments until more people approached me, then taken his violet marker to my back. I was impressed. _Magician_ , indeed. And before he walked away for real, he turned towards the camera and winked; we’d been too far away for Mor to capture our conversation, but her melodic laugh came through the clip very clearly as she swivelled the camera back towards me and zoomed in on my face, which was still an incriminating shade of pink. “Poor Feyre,” she sighed. “You’re already under his spell, aren’t you?” 

Following that, I sent Mor a text that conveyed how much I appreciated her incredible pictures, and how much I hadn’t appreciated her too-candid video and unwarranted comment. 

Her response was immediate.

**Mor, 11:41pm:** You’re welcome, now get some sleep. You’ve got very entertaining dreams waiting for you, I’d imagine… 

I cursed her silently and flopped back on my bed, the sound of her recorded voice replaying over and over again in my mind. _Poor Feyre. You’re already under his spell, aren’t you?_

Looking over at the white and violet ribbon, carefully folded on my bedside table (I’d decided that what the jury didn’t know couldn’t hurt them), a small smile curved my lips, and I found it strangely difficult to contradict her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, and feel free to let me know what you thought! :)


	9. Speak My Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following prompts (because with Nessian, it seems that I can never pick just one (also sort of spoiler-y, so read on at your own risk):
> 
> \- We’ve barely interacted so far but one night there’s a thunderstorm and I’m a serious astraphobe and come into your room shaking because I don’t know what else to do and you lull me to sleep by stroking my hair and softly ranting about Niccolò Machiavelli   
> \- We’re both in Gryffindor tower and everyone is asleep except us, but it’s thunder-storming and I never noticed how loud thunder is up in this tower, haha, I’m a little freaked out, would you mind if I just sat in your bed with you? Just until it’s over?  
> \- "Don't tell anyone you saw me crying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoy!

_One one thousand, two one thousand, three one…_

Another deafening crash rattled the tower, the dull grey stone walls of the dormitory doing nothing to muffle the sound. In her bed, curled into a ball under her red and gold comforter, Nesta shook so violently that her teeth chattered. It was the first storm of the season, a late spring eventuality that she’d been dreading for months; and distantly, just past the chasm of fear taking up most of her mind, she was grateful that it had been nighttime when it began—that she didn’t have to betray this weakness to the rest of her classmates. At least in the dark, she could hide her terror behind drawn curtains, a well-cast sticking spell, and enough wards around her bed to protect her from even the most sinister dark wizards. As it was, she just wanted to keep away prying dormmates. 

The opaque crimson curtains blocked out the dazzling shocks of lightning that lit up the dormitory between claps of thunder, and her normally flawless silencing spells were completely ineffective against the horrifyingly loud noises. Maybe it was some magical defect in the spell, or maybe it was because she couldn’t quite pronounce the spell right while her voice was choked with tears.

But after an especially loud, earth-shaking crack resonated through the room, setting Nesta’s heart ricocheting around her constricting chest, she suddenly couldn’t stomach the idea of being by herself, with nothing but her all-consuming terror keeping her company. She wanted her sisters with her, wanted Elain’s dulcet voice assuring her that she’d be alright and Feyre’s steadfast, solid presence to ground her, to keep her fear from shattering her—but with one in Slytherin and the other in Hufflepuff, reaching them was all but an impossibility. And the thought of casting a Patronus, summoning her silvery-white raven, felt too much like inviting lightning into her small, dark sanctuary. What could they have done to help her, anyway? She was in this alone—she’d just have to wait it out.

Only after tugging futilely on her curtains for a few moments did she remember to remove the sticking charm sealing them together, and she got shakily to her feet, wrapping her thin arms around her waist in a failed effort to quell her trembling. Soft snores filled the empty silence left behind by the last crack of thunder, all four of her classmates sleeping soundly through the storm. Nesta envied them so much it hurt. 

Alone, terrified, and embarrassed: that was what she was, but she couldn’t bring herself to rouse any of them from their slumber just to witness her in her state of dishevelment. 

A silent flash of lightning through the tall, thin windows startled her so badly that her knees buckled, sending her running blindly down the hall to the common room, where she clambered onto the red leather couch, pressing her forehead onto her bent knees and closing all of the curtains with a wordless swish of her wand. 

Without the dull, meagre light escaping through the thick charcoal clouds, the common room was pitch-dark, only the rumbles of thunder keeping her acutely aware of the chaos raging outside of Hogwarts’s impenetrable stone walls. There was no fire roaring in the hearth, leaving the room in a cold stasis that only served to intensify her shaking. She had no idea what she was doing there, why she’d chosen to abandon her small, private space for an open, public one where anyone could wander in and catch her in her state of abject misery. The thought was almost as terrifying as the storm itself. 

She jolted when, a few excruciatingly long moments later, the room was suddenly bathed in light, leaving her wondering how, exactly, lightning had managed to flash brightly enough to bypass the thick, velvet curtains—before realising that lightning, typically, did not glow orange. The previously dry, empty hearth now burned merrily, the dark, gloomy space regaining some semblance of warmth that Nesta could not appreciate, since she was currently whipping her head around, trying frantically to locate whoever had lit the fire, because it certainly hadn’t been her. 

At first she saw no one, her search cut short by another rolling boom breaching the castle walls. Her arms tightened around her legs and she screwed her eyes shut until stars danced in her vision. If someone was around, if someone had seen her… Nesta decided in that moment that she didn’t care to know. 

She sucked in a startled gasp when she felt something being draped across her shoulders, something not quite heavy, but weighted enough to ward off some of the damp chill seeping through her bones. Her eyes fluttered open just in time to see the new Durmstrang transfer student take a seat on the couch just beside her, grinning his crooked grin and reaching to tuck the blanket more securely around her. She didn’t have the energy to scowl at him—a necessary, involuntary reaction to his presence at all times—which alarmed Cassian and pleased him in equal measures. 

Well, perhaps not quite equal, as Nesta's distress was manifestly apparent—absolutely undeniable when a violent shudder wracked through her following the next clap of thunder, the plush fur blanket sliding off of her thin, trembling shoulders. 

_Nesta, imperturbable and fearless Nesta, is terrified of thunderstorms,_ he thought, utterly baffled _._ But he didn’t laugh; it didn’t even cross his mind—not with her looking so small and vulnerable curled in on herself beside him. 

He moved a little bit closer, and though Cassian had hoped she wouldn’t, Nesta noticed the movement, somehow managing to clearly convey her profound irritation towards him despite the terror lining her beautiful face. 

“Go away,” she muttered, her voice wavering. “I don’t… I c-can’t… not now, Cassian.” _Out of everyone in this blasted tower_ , she thought bitterly, it had to be _him_ who found her like this. It had to be Cassian, had to be the most irksome, arrogant person in the entire school who stumbled upon her in this pitiful state. Nesta would have taken _anyone_ else in that moment, humiliation aside, but though she would have expected him to relish this opportunity to point out a crack in her impenetrable armour, maybe even further pry it open, the expression on his rugged, handsome face was soft, betraying more concern than judgment.

After a long, silent moment, he nodded slowly, moving to stand up. “If that’s what you want.” His voice, thick with a rolling Slavic accent, carried no trace of disappointment or resentment, no tells of anything other than respectful acceptance of her request. 

As he strode back towards the boys’ dormitory, taking his leather- and clove-scented warmth with him, the speed with which Nesta changed her mind nearly gave her whiplash. 

But her voice stuck in her throat when she tried to call him back, only a small, pained whimper making it past her lips. Dignity be damned—she was too tired and cold and _scared_ to care. Even considering her conflicting feelings towards the infuriating man, she didn’t want to be left alone with her terror. In that moment, he was her only hope of fulfilling that desperate, pathetic wish.

Miraculously, Cassian heard her quiet, wordless plea, and pivoted back to her without a moment’s hesitation. Nesta couldn’t help but notice that when he sat by her this time, he placed himself noticeably closer—enough that his warm scent wrapped around her like the blanket he’d lain over her, which he gently pulled back up over her shoulders. It helped fight away the sickening smell of rain and damp that accompanied the early summer storm and settled into the walls of the castle, easing her nausea bit by bit. 

“So,” he said in a low, night-quiet voice, “thunderstorms, eh?” Even with tear-filled eyes, Nesta’s glare was still fearsome, and Cassian swore the fire in the hearth blazed a bit hotter, the flame leaping higher as it narrowed in on him.

“Not. A. Word. To _anyone._ Y—“ Her venom-infused words were cut off abruptly by another formidable thunderclap, and her entire body tensed, the heat in her eyes doused like a gutted candle. Cassian felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. 

“Please,” she whispered when the room was silent once more, and there was no threat in her voice this time, only a palpable lack of energy. “Don’t t-tell anyone you saw m-m-me crying.” All of the fight had left her, and she allowed the silent tears lining her eyes to pour down her cheeks, dripping onto her silk pyjamas like hot raindrops. 

“I would never. I swear it, Nesta,” he assured her with all of the conviction he possessed. 

She didn’t—couldn’t—give him any sort of reaction to his statement, his promise to protect her most despised secret, and a ragged sob clawed its way out of her, a product of both self-loathing and soul-deep terror. 

Once the storm had passed, she would remind herself that her fear was entirely irrational, and that natural occurrences like thunderstorms were nothing to be afraid of—that they couldn't hurt her. But in these moments, while the sky raged like an angry deity outside the windows, rationality wasn’t an accessible option. 

“Hey,” Cassian said, his voice soft, “it’s alright. It will be over soon. Try to breathe.” He took a few deep breaths himself, as if he thought that perhaps Nesta had forgotten how.

But _soon_ wasn’t _now,_ and Nesta entire body still shook like a leaf on a windy day, clinging to its branch for dear life and all the while knowing it wouldn’t win its fight against nature. 

Slowly, so achingly slowly, Cassian wrapped his muscled arm around Nesta’s shoulders, still leaving a respectful amount of space between their bodies, even if the position made his shoulder ache a little bit. She stiffened, but made no move to shove him off, and a moment later, her full-body shakes had reduced to quiet tremors under his arm. 

No one and nothing should be able to subject this fierce woman to such profound suffering, Cassian thought, and Nesta didn’t deserve to be left alone with her terror. So he held onto her—trying, if nothing else, to make sure she knew that he was there with her. 

Someone, earlier when it was warm and balmy, must have left one of the common room windows open, because all of a sudden, a powerful gust of wind set one of the sets of curtains flapping wide open—just in time for a blinding flash of lightning to blaze through the room. Nesta burrowed into Cassian’s side, closing the rigid distance between them and hiding her face in his red cotton t-shirt, her tears slowly soaking through the fabric. He said nothing, only pulled her closer to him, moving his arm to wrap around her waist as if he thought he stood a chance at protecting her from the ear-splitting noises cutting through the castle walls. 

But even Cassian tensed a little bit when the next wrathful roar of thunder echoed through the otherwise empty room, and Nesta let out a pained whimper, hating hating _hating_ how pathetic she sounded—how pathetic she _was_ in the face of such a natural, harmless phenomenon _._

That small, devastating noise cleaved Cassian’s heart clean in two. Seeing this strong, steel-willed woman so vulnerable, so frightened… he just couldn’t abide it. He had to get that silver tongue of hers moving again, had to give her something to think about other than the whipping wind and deafening crashes shrouding their sanctuary. So he changed tactics, wracking his brain instead for something to say, to distract her from the storms raging both outside and inside Gryffindor tower. 

“Have you ever read…” he began, sifting through troves upon troves of useless information he’d accumulated from muggle and wizarding literature alike. 

“So, I just finished this really fascinating book about this old guy I think you might find interesting,” he decided on at last, keeping his voice low and soft. Nothing like a good, old-fashioned rant to drown out the silence. “I am forgetting his name… I think it started with ‘m’. Or maybe ’n’? No, no—definitely ‘m’. Marcus, Macaroni…” He snapped his fingers in time with another thunder crack, as if the name—which he’d never forgotten in the first place—had come back to him, and he fought back a cringe when Nesta’s tremors redoubled under his arm. 

“Machiavelli—that was his name. Wasn’t right in the head, that one.” He felt, rather than saw, her head raise slowly from its position on his chest to look at him curiously, the ghost of a smile on her lips. So she _had_ heard of him. Cassian had no notion of the who was and was not a household name in the muggle world, so secluded had he been from them while he’d been a student at Durmstrang; and Nesta’s reaction gave him little insight into the general popularity of this particular man. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she was familiar with every known philosophical theorist since Socrates, given the sheer number of books the precocious woman read. 

“Anyway, he had this _ridiculous_ theory. Now, if I have understood all the old philosophical jargon properly, seems like politics and ethics go hand-in-hand, right? _Should_ go hand-in-hand. Otherwise, the fellows at the Ministry or Wizengamot, for example, wouldn’t have to consider what they should or shouldn’t do from moral standpoint when making decisions in the political context. Pretty important, if you ask me,” he added with a wry smile, hoping she wasn’t too offended by the little flaws punctuating his English speech. It hadn’t been an easy language to learn. 

“Well, Machiavelli thought we should completely separate politics from ethics—basically arguing that any means are justified if they help people who are important rise to and stay in power, regardless of moral principles. He wrote about some guy in his book who _cut someone in half_ to show the city he ruled that he had power and was not afraid to use it. How terrible is that?” He grimaced, and was gratified to find that her attention was fixed wholly on him, even while thunder still crackled audibly in the background. Even when it was fairly evident that she was unimpressed with his informal, patchy summary of _The Prince_. He promised himself to ask her opinions on it later. 

“And he was constantly talking about the whole love-fear dichotomy,” he continued, picking up and sewing together the stray bits of knowledge he could recall from the book, having read it almost a week ago. “You know, whether it is better to be feared or loved by your people, and Machiavelli stood by principle that it was always better to be feared. Because love was, apparently, not strong enough to ensure loyalty when someone else’s interests were at stake, while fear and promise of punishment were much more convincing for keeping people under your thumb.”

“Horrible, really,” whispered Nesta, her voice raspy; and she smirked up at Cassian, who couldn’t suppress a grin at the reaction he’d summoned from her so soon after being held captive in the iron grip of fear. He kept babbling before it got the chance to grab hold of her again.

“It’s like he thought he was capable of…” He struggled to remember the exact words the madman had written in his book, and quickly translated them from Russian to English in his mind before going on. “As if he could bend reality to his will,” he said finally, “as if he could control and predict every aspect of life and prepare ahead of time, completely untouched by chance and unexpected events. But that makes no sense at all, does it? How can you say that… what’s the word… _efficaciousness_ , without morality, is the best way to go about things? He held imagination in so much contempt, but that’s what’s proven itself to be most formidable, revolutionary force when it comes to power and leadership in politics. In everything, really. I stand by my argument that he had no clue what he was talking about.” 

Once he’d finished his choppy, heavily accented monologue, he looked again at the woman curled into his side—and found her fast asleep, her body no longer shaking even as the storm whipped up a fury outside their tower and thunder still boomed through the cloudy night. The sleep-induced softness in her features as she leaned her head on his chest set something in his heart flaring to life. Gone was the petrifying fear that had seized her for longer than Cassian had been in her presence this night; and at that moment, he could no more fathom waking her up to guide her to her own bed than he could imagine himself embracing Machiavellian theory. Moving clearly wasn’t an option.

So he transfigured a Gryffindor-red couch cushion into one of the downy white ones on his bed and carefully wedged it behind his head, taking great care not to jostle her. And despite the continuing rumble of thunder and his upright position, he found sleep easily, swiftly lulled there by Nesta’s faint scent of lemongrass and spices and the sound of her soft breathing—no longer coming in short, ragged gasps, but deep, even breaths. Finally, for the first time since the skies opened up and the clouds began brewing, she was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never realised how much I loved Slavic!Cassian and Durmstrang!Cassian until he showed up in this story...
> 
> I spent an embarrassingly long time researching Machiavelli for the purpose of this fic (I wonder what that says about me...), so if I got anything wrong, feel free to laugh at me and/or tell me ;)
> 
> I hope you liked it! Feel free to let me know what you think, and come find me on Tumblr!! :)


	10. Éblouissant(e)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the following prompt: "I have to take this language tutorial even though I speak the language fluently, and the TA notices and uses the tutorial as an opportunity to flirt with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written Mor x Elain before, and I really hope you like it! I've been dying to fill this prompt for a while now, and I had a surge of inspiration recently that led to this fluffy fic full of fun and French flirting (that's a mouthful...)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!! :)

“Feyre, do we _have_ to go to this tutorial? We learned this stuff in primary school.”

“You’ve asked me this already. Do the words ‘it’s mandatory’ mean nothing to you? Trust me, I’d rather be _anywhere_ else on a Friday night, and we already skipped last week.”

Elain let out a disgruntled huff. The only reason she was taking Beginner’s French was because it was a prerequisite for her master’s degree, and Feyre was only attending because Elain was. It was painful enough, sitting in a hall surrounded by disinterested first-years twice every week, listening to a self-important professor no older than Elain was as she lectured and disparaged the class for two hours without reprieve. To spend an extra hour every Friday from now until the end of term going over rudimentary principles that both of them already knew inside and out… it seemed like a colossal waste of time. And it was only the second week of classes.

Elain groaned. “I hate this class.”

“No, you don’t,” Feyre said simply, but there was a knowing glint in her eye. “Besides, you could probably use a little extra practice,” she proposed. “God knows you don’t pay attention in class.” A pointed jab in the ribs accompanied her statement, and Elain gave her sister an annoyed sidelong glance.

“I don’t _need_ to,” she argued, quelling the urge to say something more defensive and less kind to her meddling little sister.

Feyre was right, though, of course. Two weeks in, and Elain couldn’t recall a single word the professor had said in any of her classes, seeing as she’d spent the full duration of all four lectures staring at their outrageously attractive teacher’s assistant. It was a miracle, really, that the woman hadn’t caught her. If she knew how much time Elain spent ogling her (really, it was impossible not to), she’d probably have her kicked out of the class.

After that first lecture, to the detriment of Elain’s sanity, Feyre had insisted that they sit at the front of the room, claiming that Elain’s distractedness was contagious, and that it was having a negative effect on her learning. It made sneaking glances at the golden-haired woman much more difficult—which was probably a good thing for everyone involved, if Elain was being honest. But these two-hour-long struggles, which went unnoticed by everyone save for Feyre, had given her sister the opportunity, once class was over, to needle Elain until her face burned red.

“You should have seen her, Elain,” Feyre teased as they made their way across campus. “She couldn’t stop staring at you. Maybe we should go back and talk to her, ask her for her number. You could tutor each other.” Elain knew her sister’s comments were heinous lies conjured up to get a rise out of her. But that knowledge didn’t help her in the least, didn’t stop her from flushing pink and stammering her way through denial after embarrassed denial, to Feyre’s delight.

Though it was hardly her fault, that woman was half of the reason Elain hated the class so profoundly—and half of the reason she could stand it in the first place.

A moment passed in the wake of Feyre’s suggestion—which Elain had wrongly assumed had been in jest—before Feyre turned, whip-quick, and darted back towards the lecture hall. Elain, stumbling in her hurry to catch up, took off after her. Students gawked as they sprinted down the hallway, zig-zagging around in an effort not to knock over innocent bystanders. Years of dance had made Elain strong and quick, but Feyre was faster, and she reached the doors to the lecture hall just out of Elain’s reach, her hand closing around the door handle as Elain’s fingers uselessly brushed her arm. Her heart pounded a panicked rhythm, dread crawling up her neck and invading her mind. What was Feyre doing? What was she saying?

Elain didn’t stick around to find out, instead picking her way back through the gathering crowd of gawking students towards the tutorial classroom, leaving her sister behind to wreak irreparable damage on her dignity.

But such was not to be as, a few excruciating minutes later, Feyre caught up with Elain and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. Elain tried to wrench out of her grip, but Feyre was strong and didn’t let go, planting them both in place in the middle of the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Elain,” she said through huffs of laboured breath that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“That was mean,” Elain growled. Her heart was still fluttering hummingbird-quick, anxiety making her limbs feel leaden and shaky.

Though she knew she wasn’t particularly intimidating, Elain gave Feyre her most withering glare. To her surprise, her sister winced. “She wasn’t there, anyway. But I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll let you do the seduction from now on.”

Despite herself, Elain snorted. But she was more relieved than angry at that proclamation. No damage had been done besides a few terrifying minutes and a stitch in Elain’s side. “Come on, I’d rather not be late.”

“I thought you didn’t want to go,” Feyre said with a hint of a smirk on her lips.

“Don’t start,” Elain warned, turning around and continuing her trek across campus.

When they reached the classroom, Elain braced herself for an hour-long exercise in tedium. The old door screeched on rusty hinges as they walked in, turning the heads of a few lethargic students fidgeting in their seats. They were there fairly early, so the classroom was nearly empty, and Elain made her way to the back of the room. But Feyre stopped her, grabbing her hand and dragging her towards the empty front row with a skip in her step. Elain’s irritation reached its peak.

“Feyre, I don’t—”

“If we’re going to learn anything,” Feyre interrupted with a sly smile that Elain was not overly fond of, “we have to be close enough to hear the TA.”

“Not _this_ close,” muttered Elain, more to herself than anything.

Then Feyre’s words registered.

_We have to be close enough to hear the TA._

“Wait,” Elain spluttered, “the prof isn’t teaching the tutorial?”

Feyre snorted. “Have you never taken a class here before? Since when does the prof teach the tutorial?”

Elain gave Feyre a pained smile. “Right, of course.” _Please don’t let it be her,_ she pleaded silently. _Please don’t let it be her._ Maybe there was still time to slip out, to make her excuses…

The door’s unholy screech sliced through her panicked thoughts, and Elain was ashamed of her relief when the course’s second TA, a tall, raven-haired man, strode into the classroom. All at once, it became apparent why Feyre was so interested in sitting at the very front of the room. Her face was tinged pink, and the smile that she gave the man was a little bit too radiant to be inconspicuous. Elain shook her head and relaxed back in her seat with a reticent smile. 

“Sorry we’re late,” he apologised. “Traffic in this weather is a nightmare, and Mor can’t drive to save her life.”

A muted chuckle rippled through the classroom, but Elain froze _. Sorry_ we’re _late._ Could there be a third TA? Sometimes there were more than two for the larger classes, she considered, though she’d never seen another graduate student sitting in on the lecture before. And their class of fifty didn’t quite qualify as large. _Please let there be another TA…_

Elain’s heart jumped when the door opened a final time, the class collectively wincing at the noise, and her stomach flipped when that hauntingly beautiful woman slid into the classroom and started making her way towards her colleague. _Shit._ When she passed by her, Elain quickly ducked down, pulling a notebook from her bag to hide her reddening face. But when she straightened, notebook in hand, the woman was looking right at her, wearing a curious expression. Out of the corner of her eye, Elain saw Feyre trying (and failing) to hide her quiet laughter. The woman’s gaze flicked to her sister for a moment, the echo of amusement playing about her lips, before returning to Elain. With some effort, Elain looked away, jotting the date down in her notebook to give herself something to do other than gape, and a moment later, she was gratified to hear her start up a whispered conversation with the other TA. _Get a grip._

“Hey, guys,” she said a few moments later, her voice sweet and bright as sunshine. “For those of you who don’t know us,” she began, sparing Elain another brief glance, “this is Rhysand—” a graceful turn of her wrist towards the grinning man, who seemed to only have eyes for Feyre,”—and I’m Morrigan. _Mais, s’il vous plaît, appelez-moi Mor.”_

“And for those of you who don’t know,” Rhysand cut in, “Mor likes to hear herself talk—” he ignored her scoff, “—which is why we’ll be splitting you guys into two groups—so you can decide who you’d rather spend the next hour with.” The class was visibly more relaxed as they watched their TAs’ playful exchange—a dramatic change of pace compared to their hateful professor’s vitriol. “I’m kidding. For those of you who feel like you really need to catch up, if you’re behind on the course material, or if you just want someone _interesting_ to practice French with, you can join me up here. If you’re feeling more confident in your skills and want to give yourself a challenge before next week’s quiz, I’m afraid you’re stuck with Mor.”

“A glowing recommendation, my dear Rhysand,” Mor drawled, her voice nearly drowned out by the sound of chairs scraping across the floor as students got up and picked a group.

Feyre, to Elain’s chagrin (but not her surprise), immediately sidled over to join Rhys’s group. Elain had half a mind to join her, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Even if this had just been a coincidence, both of their TA’s being here, Elain wasn’t about to intrude on Feyre’s flirting session (which was undoubtedly what this class was going to be for her, given the doe-eyes the two of them were exchanging). So she followed Mor and a few other students towards the far end of the classroom, while the majority crowded around Rhysand. It was an introductory course, after all, so it made sense that most of the people who made the effort to come to the tutorial, mandatory or otherwise, needed the extra help.

 _Maybe now’s a good time to slip out_ , she thought, eyeing the door a few paces away. But there was no way the horrible creak would go unnoticed, and the point was _not_ to draw attention to herself. So she settled into a rickety wooden chair near the small group of first-years who had elected to join Mor, and tried not to look at her.

She failed.

“Glad you picked the right team,” Mor said with a disarming smile, earning a few quiet laughs. “Just out of curiosity, are any of you fluent?”

Elain stubbornly refrained from raising her hand, and no one else in their small circle moved either, though a few exchanged nervous glances. _Good._ The last thing she needed was more of the woman’s attention directed at her. She could hear Feyre’s voice in her head, encouraging her to show off her perfect French and impress Mor, to use her language skills as an instrument of seduction. But just the idea of seeking Mor's approval made her jittery. So she sat still and said nothing.

“Excellent,” Mor chirped, her chocolate-brown eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled, “which means we’ll have something to do for the next hour. Don’t worry, I don’t expect anybody to be able to speak perfect French at this stage, and I don’t bite, so feel free to ask me any questions you might have.”

A tentative hand lifted, belonging to a boy who looked as entranced by Mor as Elain was, and Mor gave him an encouraging nod.

“Do… do you know what this week’s quiz is on?” the boy murmured, blushing red from his neck to his ears.

Mor’s lips twitched, and Elain felt her heart tug. How she was going to make it through the hour without turning into a flustered mess was beyond her.

“Don’t tell Amarantha I told you,” she said, flashing him a conspiratorial grin, “but your first quiz is going to be on adjectives.” The bashful boy gave her a wobbly smile and ducked his head. Elain felt for him. “Now, here’s what I want you to do. There are how many of you here?” She did a quick head count. “Seven—perfect. I want you to find a partner, and for the next two or three minutes, write down as many adjectives as you can think of. In French would be ideal, but if you have any interesting ones that you’d like to see translated, go ahead and add them to your list.” Instinctively, Elain glanced across the room at Feyre, who was rapt with attention as Rhys taught the much bigger group of students a topic she couldn’t hear; and by the time she turned back towards her group, everyone had already paired off. _Oh well._ She didn't mind working alone.

Twirling a pencil between her fingers, Elain flipped open her notebook and began writing down as many adjectives as she could think of. _Belle, dorée, grande, féminine, hâle, attrayante, ridicule…_ She stopped writing and immediately crossed out her list of words, glaring down at the page. _Beautiful, golden, tall, feminine, tan, attractive, ridiculous._

“Need a partner?” Elain’s head snapped up in time to see Morrigan step into view, gracefully pivoting the chair belonging to the desk in front of her and sitting down. Her knee-jerk response of _It’s fine, really_ , died on her tongue as the woman gave her a kind, confident smile.

“Sure,” she mumbled, trying her best to sound indifferent. She was not a lovesick schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher—never mind that Mor was her age and quite possibly the most beautiful woman she’d ever laid eyes on. But that wasn’t the point.

Before she could turn to a new page in her notebook, Mor craned her neck over her desk and peeked at her scratched-out list of words. She clamped her lips together like she was trying to swallow laughter, her brown eyes sparkling, and she looked a little too pleased with herself.

“Feeling inspired?”

Elain ignored her comment and jotted down a few more “inspired” adjectives. _Bavarde, gênante, s_ _û_ _r de soi…_

But she couldn’t think of any more words that wouldn’t incriminate herself further. And Mor was laughing.

“Can’t say you’re wrong.” She looked up from Elain’s unfortunate list of tepid insults and her smile softened. It was hard to think when she was looking at her like that. (Or looking at her at all.)

“Why don’t I try?” Mor asked sweetly, swivelling the notebook towards her and smoothly plucking the pencil from Elain’s hand. Elain scowled, which only brightened the woman’s amused smile before she put pencil to page and began to write.

 _Intelligente, rougissante, drôle, française, radieuse_ —

Elain snatched back her notebook, her face burning. But before she got the chance to say anything to defend her dignity, Mor had already gotten back up to help the other students with their lists, her lean shoulders shaking with silent laughter. For a moment, she considered ripping the offending paper out of her book and crumpling it up (and throwing it at Mor’s retreating head). But she just turned the page and started over again, mindful of the words she wrote this time and how much they gave away.

_Concentrée, marron, lumineuse, énervante, petite, douce, contente, silencieuse, merveilleuse, gentille, attirante, maudite…_

 

* * *

 

“Alright. Has everyone got a healthy list of words?” A chorus of _mhm_ s and a few nods followed. Elain looked up from her fairly extensive list of adjectives (a large portion of which were viciously crossed out) and avoided looking at Mor. “Good. Now I want you to try to put them into sentences. Write them down first, if you need to, then try reading them to your partner. Do the best you can, and if you need help, don’t be shy to ask me any questions.” After a beat, quiet conversation picked up—hesitant at first, and then more confidently as the students grew comfortable with their sentences.

Elain stared resolutely at her notebook, hoping that if she ignored Mor, she would be left alone. But evidently, she was not that lucky, because there Mor was a moment later, sitting before her, flashing her that heart-rending smile. Her expression conveyed nothing but mischievous intentions, and though Elain tried to ignore her, it was impossible.

Mor opened her mouth to speak, but Elain reacted first. “Why don’t I start this time?” Elain found herself asking before she could think, determined to stop Mor from saying whatever damning thing was on her mind.

“By all means,” she drawled, her eyes twinkling with mirth. With every ounce of will she possessed, Elain beat down the blush rising to her cheeks. A small victory, though Mor’s expression of amused intrigue didn't falter.

Elain looked Mor in the eyes as she spoke, not bothering to consult her list as she laid out a carefully curated selection of adjectives. “ _Je suis plutôt_ fatiguée _et_ froide _et il est_ difficile _de se concentrer quand tu n'arrête pas de me parler. Si la porte n'était pas aussi_ bruyante _, je serais déjà partie._ ”

Mor chuckled. “I _knew_ you were fluent. Rhys owes me five bucks.”

Elain’s brows flicked up. “How—”

“I’ve never seen anyone less attentive in any of Amarantha’s classes. Your accent is beautiful, by the way.” _Don’t blush. Don’t_ —too late. “But that’s not the best you can do, is it?” A wink, and she leaned back in the decrepit old seat like it was her throne, waiting for Elain to take the bait. And even though Elain recognised the challenge for what it was, she fell for it.

“Alright, fine. How about, _La femme avec les yeux_ marron _est_ bavarde _et un peu_ agaçant _et son sourire est_ ébl —” Elain cut herself off before she could finish her sentence, which had very suddenly turned into an admission. _Son sourire est_ éblouissant _._

“ _Mon sourire est quoi, chérie?_ ” Mor teased, lifting a brow, but there was a flush of colour in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. When Elain showed no interest in responding, Mor just shrugged. “My turn, then.” She cleared her throat dramatically, and Elain braced herself for… well, she wasn’t quite sure.

“ _La femme belle avec les cheveux dorés est incroyable et intelligent et j’aimerais bien la demander si elle voudrait prendre une café avec moi._ ”

Elain’s eyes widened. Whatever she had been expecting to come out of the woman’s mouth, _that_ hadn’t been it. Her face burned hot, and something about the earnest look in Mor’s eyes made her feel like she was lit from the inside. She had the sudden desire to disappear, to sink into the floor and never emerge.

But something else nagged at her, an old instinct developed over years speaking French tugging insistently at the back of her mind—something about Mor’s statement. A few things, actually. Though she was blushing furiously and her heart felt like it was careening around her chest, Elain managed a feeble smirk. For the first time in this tutorial, fluency was on her side.

“Not quite,” she said, quietly but confidently. “Try, _La_ belle femme _avec les cheveux dorés et incroyable et_ intelligente _et tu aimerais bien_ lui _demander si elle voudrait prendre_ un _café avec toi,_ ” she corrected, feeling perhaps a bit too smug.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be teaching the class?” Mor mused aloud, not looking the least bit chastened, and Elain couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, especially when Mor grinned back at her, laughter in her eyes.

“Is that a yes?” Mor asked.

Elain lifted a brow. “ _Tu ne sais même pas mon nom, Morrigan._ ” It was a weak parry, and she knew it. 

“Ah, well that’s a rather easy fix, isn’t it? What’s your name, sweet pea?”

“Don’t call me that.” Though she tried to sound assertive, clinging to what was left of her façade of nonchalance, the words carried no force.

“I hardly have a choice if I don’t know what to call you,” Mor countered, arching a brow.

“Elain,” she acquiesced.

“ _Enchantée de faire ta connaissance, Elain,_ ” Mor said smoothly, and Elain’s heart stuttered. She cursed herself for it. “Is that a yes?” she repeated, sounding damnably hopeful.

If only because Feyre would never forgive her if she didn’t, Elain replied, “ _Pourquoi pas?_ Maybe I can help you with your French.”

At least, that’s the reasoning she clung to.

“Are you free after class?”

 _I am now_ , Elain thought. She was sure that Feyre would forgive her for bailing on their plans to study together, and she was more certain that her sister would _never_ forgive her if she didn’t make this happen.

When Elain nodded, the smile that Mor gave her robbed the air from her lungs. “Perfect! _Je l’attends avec impatience_.” Her heart gave a jolt. _Éblouissante_ , indeed.

During the last few minutes of the class, Mor weaving through her modest group of students to offer bits of advice while Elain doodled artlessly in her notebook, their eyes found plenty of moments to meet, eager and timid smiles exchanged in abundance. Elain couldn’t recall any of the reasons she’d hated this class only an hour prior, nor could she think of anything else she’d rather be doing on a Friday night. And by the time students started filing out of the classroom, Elain had a new appreciation for tutorials. As it turned out, they could be quite enlightening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, and let me know what you think! Come find me on Tumblr, if you want!! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Tell me what you think, and come find me on Tumblr :)


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